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DAVID  McKAY,  Publisher,  Philadelphia,  Pa, 


LESSING'S 
NATHAN    THE    WISE 

TRANSLATED    FROM    THE    GERMAN. 


KDITED  BY 

ERNEST    BELL,    M.A., 

TRINITY  COLLEGE,  CAMBRIDGE. 


WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  BY 
EDWARD  BROOKS,  JR. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
DAVID    McKAY,   PUBLISHER, 

604-8  SOUTH  WASHINGTON  SQUAKfi, 


INTRODUCTION. 

IN  the  following  pages  will  be  found  a  translation 
from  the  German  of  Gotthold  Ephraim  Lessing  of 
"Nathan  the  Wise."  one  of  the  author's  most 
widely  known  dramatic  compositions.  The  story 
is  an  entertaining  one  and  holds  the  reader's 
interest  to  the  close,  although  the  ending  is  some- 
what disappointing. 

Nathan,  a  wealthy  Jew,  returning  home  from  a 
business  trip,  finds  that  his  adopted  daughter, 
Recha,  has  been  rescued  from  death  by  a  young 
Knight  Templar,  who  had  been  captured  by  the 
Sultan  Salad  in,  and  whose  life  had  been  spared  by 
reason  of  a  strong  resemblance  to  a  deceased 
brother  of  the  Sultan.  In  the  brief  meeting  between 
the  two  young  people  each  had  fallen  in  love  with 
the  other.  The  Templar,  knowing  that  Recha  .is 
the  daughter  of  a  Jew,  with  that  common  preju- 
dice for  the  race,  studiously  avoids  her,  and  re- 
fuses to  yield  to  the  entreaties  of  her  companion, 
Daja,  to  come  and  receive  thanks  for  his  heroic 
services.  Nathan,  however,  lies  in  wait  for  the 
young  man  in  a  palm  grove  near  his  house,  and, 
though  the  Templar  is  at  first  obdurate  and  even 

5 


6  INTRODUCTION. 

insulting,  Nathan  so  impresses  him  with  his  wis- 
dom and  his  worth,  that  he  at  last  yields,  and 
consents  to  meet  again  the  young  lady  he  has  saved 
from  death.  They  are  about  to  go  to  Recha  when 
X.i than  is  summoned  to  appear  before  the  Sultan. 
Saladin  is  sorely  in  need  of  money,  and  has  craftily 
pla lined  to  make  Nathan  his  treasurer,  knowing  his 
great  wealth,  and  thinking  in  this  way  to  supply 
himself  with  money  sufficient  for  hi-  He 

first  asks  Nathan  to  explain  to  him  why  he  has 
the  Jewish  faith  in  preference  toothers, 
thus  to  place  him  at  a  disadvantage.  Na- 
than answers  by  telling  the  Sultan  the  story  of 
"The  Three  Rings,"  which  so  impresses  him  with 
the  Jew's  own  goodness  and  wisdom,  that  h«»  bids 
him  depart  in  peace.  Nathan,  however,  craves  of 
the  Sultan  as  a  boon  that  he  be  allowed  to  loan  the 
Sultan  all  the  money  he  desires,  and  in  this  way 
secures  his  gratitude  and  friendship. 

In  the  meantime  the  Templar  has  visited  Recha, 
and  this  visit  has  tended  greatly  to  strengthen  the 
love  of  the  two  young  people.  He  meets  Nathan 
returning  from  the  Sultan,  and  begs  him  to  give 
his  consent  to  their  marriage.  Nathan  neither  re- 
fuses, nor  consents,  which  greatly  angers  the  young 
man,  and  on  being  informed  a  few  moments  later 
by  Daja  that  Recha  is  not  Nathan's  daughter  but  a 
Christian  maiden  born  and  baptized,  whom  he  has 
brought  up  in  the  Jewish  faith,  he  seeks  the  con- 
vent, and  inquires  of  the  Patriarch  there  what  it 


INTRODUCTION.  7 

is  possible  to  do  under  such  circumstances.  The 
Patriarch  informs  him  that  it  is  the  law  that  any 
Jew  who  shall  seduce  to  apostacy  a  Christian  shall 
die  by  fire,  and  demands  to  know  the  name  of  him 
who  has  been  guilty  of  such  dire  iniquity.  The 
Templar,  however,  refuses  to  betray  Nathan,  and 
leaves  the  convent  to  seek  Saladiii.  The  latter  re- 
ceives him  affectionately  and  promises  him  his 
assistance.  In  the  meantime  Nathan  has  learned 
in  .in  a  friar  that  Recha  is  the  daughter  of  a  certain 
man  who  styled  himself  Oluf  of  Filneck.  Nathan, 
Recha  and  the  Templar  meet  at  the  palace  of  the 
Sultan,  and  in  his  presence  the  Templar  again  asks 
for  the  hand  of  his  loved  one.  Nathan  for  answer 
declares  that  the  Templar  has  misrepresented  him- 
self, and  that  lie  is  the  son  of  Oluf  of  Filneck. 
This  tin*  Templar  admits,  whereupon.  Nathan  in- 
forms him  that  Recha  is  the  daughter  of  Oluf  and 
the  Templar's  sister.  Exclaiming  that  Nathan  has 
given  infinitely  more  than  he  has  taken  away,  the 
Templar  embraces  his  sister,  and  both  seem  su- 
premely happy.  The  final  denouement  is,  how- 
ever, yet  to  come.  The  breviary  which  the  Friar 
gave  to  Nathan  and  from  which  the  latter  learned 
the  parentage  of  Recha  is  handed  to  Saladin,  who 
at  once  recognizes  the  handwriting  of  Oluf  of 
Filneck  as  the  same  as  that  of  his  long  deceased 
brother  Assad,  whereupon  he  embraces  both  Recha 
and  the  Templar,  as  the  children  of  his  brother, 
and  his  own  nephew  and  niece. 


8  INTRODUCTION. 

The  story  is  developed  in  a  manner  interesting 
and  entertaining,  and  the  reader  cannot  fail  to  be 
impressed  with  the  author's  charm  of  diction.  The 
characters  are  all  finely  drawn,  with  the  possible 
exception  of  the  Templar,  who  seems  to  po 
many  characteristics  inconsistent  with  his  heroic 
•  •lie  of  Recha,  and  his  noble  refusal  to  repay 
with  betrayal  his  debt  of  gratitude  to  Saladin. 
Tin-  w«>ak  part  of  the  play,  from  a  dramatic  stand- 
point, is  the  complaisant  manner  in  which  the 
Templar  and  Recha  receive  the  information  that 
they  arc  brother  and  sister.  When  tin's  fact  is 
disclosed  tlio  reader  remembering  tin-  burning 
of  Recha  and  the  impatient  outbursts  of  her  lover, 
is  quite  prepared  for  tragic  action  on  the  part  of 
one  or  both,  instead  of  which  he  is  treated  to  a 
"and-they-all-lived-happy-ever-afterward  "  termi- 
nation <»f  the  play. 

The  force  of  the  criticism  is,  however,  somewhat 
diminished  when  the  purpose  of  the  composition  is 
borne  in  mind.     Lessing's  strong  contention  was 
that  the  stage  might  prove  as  useful  a  disseminator 
of  good  doctrine  as  the  pulpit,  and,  in  this  play,  he 
/strove  to  preach  the  universal  brotherhood  of  man- 
kind .     His  whole  purpose  in  this  composition 
1  a  stricture  on  class  prejudices,  and  an  enunciation 
*"<of   the  innate  truth    that  underlies   all   forms   of 
creeds/'     It  is  not  therefore  a  matter  of  great  sur- 
prise that  in  some  of  its  dramatic  elements  the 
play  seems  to  be  wanting. 


NATHAN  THE  WISE. 

A  DRAMATIC  POEM  IN   FIVE  ACTS. 

(Trnnsl<it<',l  bij  R.  Dillon  -Boylan.) 

The  well-known  <;m»tze  Controversy  is  to  be  thanked  for  the  ap- 
pearance of  this,  the  longest,  and  In  many  respects  the  most  im- 
portant, of  ;  rMiiKitic  works.  It  was  written  in  1778-9,  in 
reply  t<>  some  ..f  the  theological  censures  of  the  Hamburg  j>  , 
In  ITS,'?,  it  was  first  acted  at  Berlin,  but  it  met  with  little  suc- 
or  elsewhere,  until  in  isol,  when  it  was  introduced  on 
the  Weimar  stage,  by  Schiller  and  Goethe. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS. 

SULTAN  S ALA  DIN. 
SITTAH.  his  sister. 
NATHAN,  »/  rich  Jew  of  Jerusalem. 

!<>l>f<'<l  Daught( 
DA.JA.  a  Christian  inmntn  living  in  ttie  Jew's  house  as 

HA'S  i-nnlfitininn. 

A  young  KNIGHT  TEMPLAR. 

A  DERVISE. 

The  PATRIARCH  OF  JERUSALEM. 

A  FRIAR. 

An  EMIR  and  several  of  SALADIN'S  MAMELUKES. 

The  scene  is  in  Jerusalem. 


NATHAN  THE  WISE. 

"  Introite,  nam  et  heic  Dii  sunt." 

Apud  GELLITJM. 

ACT  I. 

SCENE  I. — A  Hall  in  Nathan's  House. 
NATHAN,  returning  from  a  journey ;  DAJA,  meeting  him. 

DAJA. 

Tis  he  !    Tis  Nathan  !  endless  thanks  to  Heaven 
That  you  at  last  are  happily  returned. 

NATHAN. 

Yes,  Daja  !  thanks  to  Heaven  !     But  why  at  lastf 
Was  it  my  purpose — was  it  in  my  power 
To  come1  back  sooner  ?    Babylon  from  here, 
As  I  was  forced  to  take  my  devious  way, 
Is  a  long  journey  of  two  hundred  leagues  ; 
And  gathering  in  one's  debts  is  not — at  best, 
A  task  that  expedites  a  traveller's  steps. 

DAJA. 

O  Nathan  !  what  a  dire  calamity 
Had,  in  your  absence,  nigh  befallen  us f 
Your  house 

NATHAN. 

Took  fire.     I  have  already  heard. 
God  grant  I  may  have  learnt  the  whole  that  chanced ! 

DAJA. 

Chance  saved  it,  or  it  had  been  burnt  to  ashes. 

11 


12  LKSSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.       [Acr  L 

NATHAN. 

Then.  Daja  !  we  had  built  another  house, 

And  a  far  better 

DAJA. 

True — ay,  true  !  but  Recha 
Was  on  the  point  of  perishing  amid 
The  flames 

NATHAN. 

Of  perishing?    Who  saidstthou?    Recha? 
I  had  not  heard  of  that.      I  should  not  then 
Have  needed  any  house.     What  !  on  tin-  point 
Of  perishing  V    *Nay.  nay  :  perrhanre  she's  dead — 
K  hiirnt  alive.     Speak,  speak  tin-  dreadful  truth. 

Kill  me,  hut  do  not  agonise  me  thm 

Tell  me  at  once  she's  dead. 

DA.I  A . 

And  if  ^}\c  \vere 
Could  you  expect  to  hear  it  from  the>e  \\\ 

N  \THAN. 

Why  then  alarm  me?     KVrha  !     ()  my  Rerhai 
DAJA. 

Your  Recha  ?    Yours  ? 

NATHAN. 

Ami  can  it  ever  be 
That  I  shall  cease  to  call  this  child  my  own? 

DAJA. 

Is  all  you  have  yours  by  an  equal  title  ? 

NATHAN. 

Nought  by  a  better.     What  I  else  enjoy 

A  re  Fortune's  gifts,  or  Nature's.     This  alone — 

This  treasure  do  I  owe  to  virtue. 

DAJA. 

Nathan  ! 

How  dearly  must  I  pay  for  all  your  goodness  ! 
If  goodness  practised  for  an  end  like  yours 
Deserves  the  name. 


SCENE  I.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  13 

NATHAN. 

An  end  like  mine  !    What  mean  you  ? 

DAJA. 
My  conscience 

NATHAN. 

Daja,  let  me  tell  you  first 

DAJA. 
I  say  my  conscience 

NATHAN. 

Oh,  the  gorgeous  robe 
That  I  have  bought  for  you  in  Babylon  ! 
Costly  it  is  and  rare.     For  Recha's  ^  If 
I  have  not  bought  a  richer. 

DAJA. 

What  of  that  ? 
My  conscience  can  be  silent  now  no  more. 

NATHAN. 

I  long  to  witness  your  delight,  to  see 

The  bracelets,  earrings,  and  the  golden  chain 

Which  I  selected  at  Damascus  for  you. 

DAJA. 
Tis  always  so,  you  surfeit  me  with  gifts. 

NATHAN. 

Accept  them  freely,  as  they  are  bestowed, 
And  silence ! 

DAJA. 

Silence  !    Yes.     But  who  can  doubt 
That  you  are  generosity  itself  ? 
And  yet 

NATHAN. 

I'm  but  a  Jew  !    Daja,  confess 
That  I  have  guessed  your  thought. 

DAJA. 

You  know  my  thoughts 
Far  better. 


14  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC   WORKS.        [ACT  L 

NATHAN. 

Well,  be  silent ! 

DAJA. 

I  am  dumb. 

And  henceforth  all  the  evil  that  may  spring 
From  this,  which  I  cannot  a  vert,  nor  change, 
Fall  on  your  head. 

NATHAN. 

Let  it  all  fall  on  me ! 

But  where  is  Recha?    What  detains  her  thus  ? 
A  i.    you  deceiving  me  ?     Can  she  have  heard 
That  I  am  here  ? 

DAJA. 

Yourself  miM   answer  that. 
Terror  still  palpitates  through  every  nerve, 
And  fancy  mingles  lire  with  all  her  thoughts. 
In  sleep  her  soul's  awake  ;  hut  when  awake, 
Is  wrapt  in  Mum  her.     Less  than  mortal  now, 
And  now  far  more  than  angel,  she  appears. 

NATHAN. 
Poor  child  !  how  frail  a  thing  is  human  nature! 

DAJA. 

She  lay  this  morn  ing  with  her  eyelids  closed — 

On.    would  have  thought  her  dead  — when  suddenly 

She  started  from  her  couch,  and  cried.  M  Hark,  hark! 

Here  come  my  father'*  camels,  and  1  hear 

]  1  is  own  sweet  voice  again  "     With  that,  her  eyes 

Once  more  she  opened,  and  her  arms'  support 

Withdrawn,  her  head  droop'd  softly  on  her  pillow. 

Quickly  I  hastened  forth,  and  now  behold, 

I  find  you  here.     But  marvel  not  at  this. 

Has  not  her  every  thought  been  long  engrossed 

With  dreams  of  you  and  him  ? 

NATHAN. 

Of  him  !     What  him  ? 


SCENE  I.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  15 

DAJA. 

Of  him  who  from  the  flames  preserved  her  life. 

NATHAN. 

And  who  was  he?    Where  is  he ?    Name  the  man 
Who  saved  my  Recha  ? 

DAJA. 

A  young  Templar  he  ! 

Brought  hither  captive  lately,  and  restored 
To  freedom  by  the  Sultan. 

NATHAN. 

How?    A  Templar? 

A  captive,  too,  and  pardoned  l>\  the  Sultan? 
Could  not  my  Recha's  life  have  been  preserved 
By  some  less  wondrous  miracle?    O  <iod  ! 

DAJA. 

But  for  this  stranger's  help,  who  risked  afresh 
The  life  so  unexpectedly  restored, 
Recha  had  surely  perished. 

NATHAN. 

Where  is  he  ? 

Where  is  this  noble  youth  ?     Where  is  he,  Daja? 
Oh,  lead  me  to  his  feet !     But  you  already 
Have  surely  lavished  on  him  all  the  wealth 
That  I  had  left  behind  ;  have  given  him  all — 
And  promised  more,  much  more. 

DAJA. 

How  could  we,  Nathan  ? 

NATHAN. 

Why  not? 

DAJA. 

He  came  we  know  not  whence,  he  went 
We  know  not  whither.     To  the  house  a  stranger, 
And  guided  by  his  ear  alone,  he  rushed 
"With  fearless  daring  through  the  smoke  and  flame, 


16  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.       [ACT  I. 

His  mantle  spread  before  him,  till  he  reached 

The  spot  whence  issued  piercing  screams  for  help. 

We  thought  him  lost  ;  when,  bursting  through  the  fire, 

He  stood  befoiv  08,  bearing  in  his  arms 

Her  almost  lifeless  form.     Unmoved  and  cold, 

I  )eaf  to  our  cries  of  thanks,  he  left  his  prize, 

through  the  wondering  crowd,  and  disappeared. 


NATHAN, 

But  not  forever,  Daja.  f  would  hope. 

DA.I  A. 

For  some  days  after,  'neath  yon  spreading  palms, 
Which  wave  above  our  blest  Redeemers  grave, 
i\\-  him  pacing  thoughtful  to  and  I'm. 

With  transport  I  approached  to  speak  my  tlianks. 
I  pleaded,  Degged,  entreated  that   lor  once, 

One.-  only,  lie  would  see  the  grateful  maid, 
Win.  longed  to  shed  at   her  preser\ 

Her  tears  of  gratitude. 

NATII  \N. 

Weil  ? 

DAJA. 

All  in  vain  ! 

Deaf  to  my  warmest  prayers,  he  poured  on  me 
Such  hitter  taunts  - 

NATHAN. 

That  you  withdrew  dismayed  ? 

I>A.FA. 

Far  otherwise.     T  sought  to  meet  him  daily, 

And  daily  heard  his  harsh  insulting  words. 

Much  have  I  borne,  and  would   have  borne  still  more 

But  lately  he  has  ceased  his  lonely  walk 

Beneath  the  spreading  palms  that  shade  the  grave 

Of  Him  who  ro<e  from  death  :  and  no  man  knows 

Where  he  may  now  l>e  found.     You  seem  surprised. 


SCENE  I.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  17 

NATHAN. 

I  was  considering  how  such  a  scene 

Must  work  upon  a  mind  like  Kucha's.     Scorned 
By  one  whom  she  can  never  cease  to  prize  : 
Repelled  by  one  who  still  attracts  her  to  him. 
Her  head  ami  heart  at  strife  !     And  long,  full  long 
The  contest  may  endure,  without  the  power 

er  or  regret  shall  triumph. 
Should  neither  prove  the  victor.  Fancy  then 
May  mingle  iu  the  t'ray,  and  turn  her  hrain. 
Then  Pa-NiMM  will  aniline  fair  Reason's  garb, 
And  Reason  act  like  Ration.      Fatal  change! 
Such,  douhtless.  if  I  know  my  Recha  well, 
Mu-t  he  her  fate  :   lier  mind  i's  now  unhinged. 

DAJA. 
But  her  illusions  are  so  sweet  and  holy. 

NATHAN. 

But  yet  she  raves  ! 

DAJA. 
The  thought  she  clings  to  most, 

Ts  that  the  Templar  was  no  earthly  form. 
Hut  her  hle^t  guardian  an.i^-1,  such  as  she 

MI  childhood  fancied  hovering  o'er  her  path  ; 
Who  from  his  veiling  cloud,  amid  the  tire 
Rushed  to  her  aid  in  her  preserver's  form. 
You  smile  incredulous.      \Vh«»  knows  the  truth? 
Permit  her  to  indulge  the  fond  deceit, 
Which  Christian.  Jew.  and  Mussulman  alike 
Agree  to  own.    The  illusion  is  so  sweet ! 

NATHAN. 

I  love  it  too.     But  go,  good  Daja  !  go, 

what  she  does — if  I  can  speak  with  her. 
This  guardian  angel,  wilful  and  untamed, 
I'll  then  seek  out — and  if  he  still  is  pleased 
To  sojourn  here  a  while  with  us— or  still 
Is  pleased  to  play  the  knight  so  boorishly, 
I'll  douhtless  find  him  out  and  bring  him  here. 


l8  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.       [ACT  I- 

DA.TA. 

You  are  too  daring,  Nathan. 

NATHAN. 

Trust  me,  Daja! 

If  fond  delusion  yield  to  sweeter  truth— 
For  human  beings  ever  to  their  kind 
Are  dearer  after  all  than  angels  are— 
You  will  not  censure  me,  when  you  perceive 
Our  lov'd  enthusiast's  mind  again  restored. 

DA.I  L 

You  are  so  good,  and  so  «lis<-eniin.ur,  Nathan! 
But  see,  behold  !     Yes,  hen-  herself. 


I  II. 

1!!  '   II  \      \  \TH  \\.    <i,,<1    DAJA. 

i  I  A  . 

And  is  it  you  !  your  very  self,  my  fat  her  V 

I  thought  you  had  hut  sent  your  voice  before  you, 

Where  are  you    lingering   still ?      \Vhat    mountains, 

streams, 

Or  deserts  now  divide  us  ?    Here  we  are 
Once  more  together,  face  to  face,  an-i 
You  do  not  hastrn  to  embrace  your  KVcha  ! 
PoorRecha!  she  was  almost  burnt  alive! 

Yet  she  escaped Hut  <lo  n<>t.  do  not  shudder. 

It  were  a  dreadful  death  to  die  l»\  lire  ! 

NATH  \\. 
My  child  I  my  darling  child  ! 

RECHA. 

Your  journey  lay 

Across  the  Tigris,  Jordan,  and  Euphrates, 
And  many  other  rivers.     Till  that  fire 
I  trembled  for  your  safety,  but  since  then 
Methinks  it  were  a  blessed,  happy  thing 
To  die  by  water.     But  you  are  not  drowned, 


SCENE  II.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  19 

Nor  am  I  burnt  alive.     We  will  rejoice, 

And  thank  our  God,  who  bore  yoa  on  the  wings 

Of  unseen  angels  o'er  the  treacherous  streams, 

And  bade  my  angel  bear  me  visibly 

On  his  white  pinion  through  the  raging  flames. 

NATHAN    aside). 

On  his  white  pinion  !     Ha  !  1  see  :  she  means 
The  broad  white  fluttering  mantle  of  the  Templar. 

RECHA. 

Yes,  visibly  he  bore  me  through  the  flames, 
O'ershadowed  by  his  wings.     Thus,  face  to  face, 
I  have  beheld  an  angel—  my  own  angel. 

NATHAN. 

Recha  were  worthy  of  so  blest  a  sight. 
And  would  not  see  in  him  a  fairer  form 
Then  he  would  see  in  her. 


1:1  <  HA  ( 

Whom  would  you  flatter  — 
The  angel,  dearest  father,  or  yourself'.-' 

NATHAN. 

And  yet  methinks.  dear  Hecha.  if  a  man  — 
Just  such  as  a  man  as  Nature  daily  fashions  — 
Had  rendered  you  this  service,  he  had  been 
A  very  angel  to  you. 

RECHA. 

But  he  was 

No  angel  of  that  stamp,  but  true  and  real. 
And  have  I  not  full  often  heard  you  say 
Tis  possible  that  angels  may  exist  ': 
And  how  God  still  works  miracles  for  those 
Who  love  Him  ?    And  I  love  Him  dearly,  father. 

NATHAN. 

And  He  loves  you  ;  and  'tis  for  such  as  you 
That  He  from  all  eternity  has  wrought 
Such  ceaseless  wonders  daily. 


20  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.        [ACT  I. 

RECHA. 

How  I  love 
To  hear  you  thus  discourse  ! 

NATHAN. 

Well,  though  it  sound 
A  thing  but  natural  and  commonplace 
That  you  should  by  a  Templar  have  been  saved, 
Is  it  the  less  a  miracle  for  that ': 
The  greatest  of  all  miracles  seems  this  : 
That  real  wonders,  genuine  miracles, 
Can  seem  and  grow  so  oommonplaoe  to  us. 
Without  this  universal  miracle, 
Those  others  would  scsarce  strike  a  thinking  man 
Awaking  wonder  but  in  children's  minds. 
Who  love  to  stare  at  strange,  unusual  things, 
And  hunt  for  novelty. 

DAJA. 

Why  will  you  thus 

With  airy  subtleties  perplex  her  mind, 
Already  overheated  ? 

N  \THAN. 

Silence,  Daja! 

And  was  it  tln-n  no  mirarh-  that   K'eeha 
Should  )>»•  indebted  for  her  life  to  one 
Whom  no  small  miracle  pre>erved  himself? 
Who  eVW  h.-ard  before,  that  Saladin 
Pardoned  a  Templar?  that  a  Templar  a-kcd  it — 
Hoped  it — or  for  his  random  oHVivd  more 
Than  his  own  sword-hrh.  <>r  at  most  his  dagger? 

RECHA. 

That  argues  for  me,  father  !     All  this  proves 
That  my  preserver  was  no  Templar  knight, 
But  only  seemed  so.     If  no  captive  Templar 
Has  e'er  come  hither  but  to  meet  his  death, 
And  through  Jerus'lem  cannot  wander  free, 
How  could  I  find  one,  in  the  night,  to  save  me  ? 


SCENE  II.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  21 

NATHAN. 

Ingenious,  truly  !     Daja,  you  must  speak. 
Doubtless,  you  know  still  more  about  this  knight ; 
For  'twas  from  you  I  learnt  he  was  a  prisoner. 

DAJA. 

Tis  but  report  indeed,  In  it  it  is  sai«l 
That  Saladingave  freedom  to  the  knight. 
Moved  by  the  likeness  which  his  features  bore 
To  a  lost  brother  whom  he  clearly  loved, 
Though  since  his  disappearance  twenty  years 
Have  now  elapsed.     He  fell  I  know  not  where* 
And  e'en  his  very  name's  a  mystery. 
But  the  whole  tale  sounds  so  incredible, 
It  may  be  mere  invention,  pure  romance. 

NATHAN. 

And  why  incredible?     Would  you  reject 
This  story,  Daja,  as  so  oft  is  done, 
To  fix  on  something  mmv  incredible, 
And  credit  that?     Why  should  not  Saladin, 
To  whom  his  race  are  all  so  dear,  have  loved 
In  early  youth  a  brother  now  no  more  ? 
Since  when  have  features  ceased  to  be  alike? 
Is  an  impression  lost  because  'tis  old? 
Will  the  same  cause  not  work  a  like  effect? 
What,  then,  is  so  incredible?    My  Daja, 
This  can  to  you  be  no  great  miracle  ; 
Or  does  a  wonder  only  claim  belief 
When  it  proceeds  from  you  ? 

DAJA. 

You  mock  me,  Nathan  I 

NATHAN. 

the  very  tone  you  use  yourself, 
dear  Recha,  your  escape  from  death 
no  less  a  miracle 

who  turns  the  proud  resolves  of  kings 
eery,  or  grides  them  to  their  end 
-  c  ireads. 


22  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.       [Acr  L 

RECHA. 

O  father,  father  I 
My  error  is  not  wilful,  if  I  err. 

NATHAN. 

No,  I  have  ever  found  you  ^lad  to  learn. 
See,  then,  a  forehead  vaulted  thus  or  thus, 
A  nose  of  such  a  shape,  and  brows  that  shade 
illi  strai^hter  <>r  with  sharper  curve, 
A  spot,  a  mole,  a  wrinkle,  or  a  line 
A  nothing  —in  an   Knn-pean's  1'a 
And  you  are  saved  in  A^ia  from  the  tlani- 
Is  that  DO  WOndef,   wonder-s,.»-kin.L:   folk? 
What   need  t"  Mimmon  ati-el-  to  \  «.ur  aid  ? 

DAJA. 

But,  Nathan.  \\  here's  t  lie  harm,      if  I  may  speak — 
In  thinking  one  was  n  M-ned  l.y  an  a: 
Rat  her  than  hy  a  man?      Are  \ve  nnt    brought 

Thus  nearer  to  the  iir>t  mysterious  cause 
Of  our  life's  preservation  ? 

NATHAN. 

Pride,  rank  pride  ! 
The  iron  pot  would  with  a  silver  tongs 

!'•••  lilt,  d  t'rnin  the  furnace,  to  believe 

1 1  M  1  f  a  silver  vase !     Well!  w  litre's  the  harm? 

\nd  ••  \\ -here's  thr  - ;-     I  well  may  ask  in  turn. 

Y<»ur  phrase.    "  It  brings  you  nearer  to  the  first 

Mysterious  cause  !  **  is  nonsense — if  'tis  not 

liank  hlaspheniy  :— it  works  a  certain  harm. 

Attend  to  me.     To  him  who  saved  your  life, 

Whether  he  be  an  angel  or  a  man. 

You  but  h—  and  you  especially— should  pay 

Substantial  services  in  just  return. 

Is  not  this  true?    Now,  what  great  services 

Have  you  the  power  to  render  to  an  ai 

To  sing  his  praise — to  pour  forth  sighs  and  pra 

Dissolve  in  transports  of  «i» -\  «• : 

Fa-t  on  his  vigil,  and  distribute 


II.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  23 

Mere  nothings  !  for  'tis  clear  your  neighbor  gains 

Far  more  than  he  by  all  this  piety. 

Not  by  your  abstinence  will  he  grow  fat, 

Nor  by  your  alms  will  he  be  rendered  rich  ; 

Nor  by  your  transports  is  his  glory  raised, 

Nor  by  your  faith  in  him  his  power  increased. 

Say,  is  not  all  this  true  ?    But  to  a  man 

DAJA. 

No  doubt  a  man  had  furnished  us  with  more 
Occasions  to  be  useful  t<>  himself  ; 
( iod  knows  how  willingly  we  had  seized  them  ! 
But  he  who  saved  her  life  demanded  nought ; 
lie  needed  nothing — in  himself  complete 
And  self-sufficient — as  the  angels  are  ; 

RECHA. 
And  when  at  last  he  vanished 

NATHAN. 

How  was  that? 

Did  he  then  vanish  ?  'Neath  yon  spreading  palms 
lias  he  not  since  h.-en  seen?  Or  have  you  sought 
Elsewhere  to  find  him  '.' 

DAJA. 

No.  in  truth  we've  not. 

NATHAN. 

Not  sought  him,  Daja  ?    Cold  enthusiasts  I 

See  now  the  harm  :  suppose  your  angel  stretched 

Upon  a  bed  of  sickne  - ! 

DAJA. 

Sickness,  what  I 

RECHA. 

A  chill  creeps  over  me.    I  shudder,  Daja  ! 

My  forehead,  which  till  now  was  warm,  becomes 

As  cold  as  very  ice  ;  come,  feel  it,  Daja. 


24  1J;SSIX<TS   DRAMATIC   WORKS.        |_Aci  I. 

NATHAN. 

He  is  a  Frank,  unused  to  this  hot  clime, 
Young  an<l  unpractised  in  his  order's  rules, 
In  fastings  and  in  vratchings  quite  untrained. 

RECHA. 

Sick !  sick ! 

DAJA. 
Your  father  means  'twere  possible. 

NATHAN. 

Friendless  and  penniless,  lie  may  he  lying 
Without  the  means  to  purchase  aid. 

i;i:<  HA. 

Alas! 

NATHAN. 

Without  advice,  or  hope,  or  sympathy, 
May  li«  a  prey  to  agony  and  death. 

RECHA. 

Where,  where? 

N  \TH\N. 

And  yet  for  one  he  never  knew — 
Enough  for  him  it  waft  a  human  being- 
He  plunged  amid  the  flames  and — 

DAJA. 

Spare  her,  Nathan ! 

NAT!- 

lie  >.. uglit  no  more  to  know  the  U-ing  whom 

He  rescued  thus — he  shunned  her  very  thanks 

RECHA. 

Oh,  spare   l.er  '. 

NATHAN. 

I  )id  not  wish  to  see  her  more, 
Unless  to  save  her  for  the  second  time — 
Enough  for  him  that  she  was  human  1 

DA  J  A . 

Hold  ! 


SCENE  II.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  25 

NATHAN. 

He  may  have  nothing  to  console  him  dying, 
Save  the  remembrance  of  his  deed. 

DAJA. 

You  kill  her 

NATHAN. 

And  you  kill  him,  or  might  have  done  at  least. 
Tis  med'cine  that  I  give,  not  poison,  Recha! 
Hut  be  of  better  cheer:  he  lives — perhaps 
He  is  not  ill. 

RECHA. 

Indeed  ?  not  dead— not  ill  ? 

NATHAN. 

Assuredly  not  dead — for  God  rewards 

Good  deeds  done  here  below — rewards  them  here. 

Then  go,  but  ne'er  forget  ln>\v  <  asier  far 

Devout  enthusiasm  is,  than  good  deeds. 

How  soon  our  indolence  contents  itself 

With  pious  raptures,  ignorant,  perhaps, 

Of  their  ulterior  end,  that  we  may  be 

Exempted  from  the  toil  of  doing  good. 

RECHA. 

O  father  !  leave  your  child  no  more  alone. — 
But  may  he  not  have  only  gone  a  journey  ? 

NATHAN. 

Perhaps.     But  who  is  yonder  Mussulman, 
Numbering  with  curious  eye  my  laden  camels? 
Say,  do  you  know  him  ? 

DAJA. 
Surely  your  own  Dervise. 

NATHAN. 

Who? 


2 


DAJA. 

Your  Dervise — your  old  chess  companion. 


26  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.       [ACT  L 

NATHAN. 

Al-Hafi  do  you  mean  ?    What !— that  Al-Hafi  ? 

DAJA. 

No  other  :  now  the  Sultan's  treasurer. 

NATHAN. 

What,  old  Al-Hafi  ?    Do  you  dream  again  ? 
And  yet  'tis  he  himselt  min^  hither. 

Quick,  in  with  you  !    What  am  I  now  to  hear  ? 


SCENE  III. 

NATHAN  a,,<l  the  DERVISE. 
Damn, 

Ay,  lift  your  eyes  and  won. hi. 

NATHAN. 

Is  it  you? 
A  Dervise  so  magnificent  ! 

DERVISK. 

Why  not? 
Can  you  make  nothing  of  a  Dervise,  Nathan? 

NATHAN. 

Ay,  surely,  but  I've  still  been  wont  to  think 
A  Dervise — I  would  say  a  thorough  Dervise — 
Will  ne'er  let  anything  be  made  of  him. 

DERVISE. 

Well,  by  the  Prophet !  though  it  may  be  true 
That  I'm  no  thorough  Dervise,  yet  one  must— — 

NATHAN. 

Must,  Hafi  !    You  a  Dervise  !    No  man  mwsf— — 
And  least  of  all  a  Dervise. 


SCENE  III.]          NATHAN  THE  WISE.  27 

DERVISE. 

Nay,  he  must, 
When  he  is  much  implored  and  deems  it  right. 

NATHAN. 

Well  spoken,  Hafi  !  Let  us  now  embrace. 
You're  still,  I  trust,  my  friend. 

DERVISE. 

Why  not  ask  first 
What  has  been  made  of  me  ? 

NATHAN. 

I  take  my  chance, 
In  spite  of  all  that  has  been  made  of  you. 

DERVISE. 

May  I  not  be  a  servant  of  the  state 

Whose  friendship  is  no  longer  good  for  you  ? 

NATHAN. 

If  you  but  still  possess  your  Dervise  heart 
I'll  run  the  risk  of  that.  The  stately  robe 
Is  but  your  cloak. 

DERVISE. 

And  yet  it  claims  some  honor. 
But,  tell  me  truly,  at  a  court  of  yours 
What  had  been  Hafi's  rank  ? 

NATHAN. 

A  Dervise  only — 
Or,  if  aught  else — perhaps  my  cook. 

DERVISE. 

Why  yes ! 

That  I  might  thus  unlearn  my  native  trade, 
Your  cook  !  why  not  your  butler  ?    But  the  Sultan- 
He  knows  me  better — I'm  his  treasurer. 

NATHAN. 

What,  you  ? — his  treasurer  ? 


28  LI-:SSI\(;*S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.     [ACT! 

DERVISF. 

Mistake  me  not, 

I  only  bear  his  lesser  purse  :  his  father 
Still  manages  the  greater,  and  I  am 
The  treasurer  of  his  house. 

NATHAN. 

His  house  is  large! 

DERVISE. 

Far  larger  than  you  think  —  all  needy  men 
Are  of  his  house. 

N  \THAN. 

Yet  Saladin  is  such 
A  foe  to  beggars  ! 

DERvi-i 

That  he'd  root  them  out, 
Though  he  turned  beggar  in  the  enterjn 

NATHAN. 

Bravo  !  I  meant  as  much. 


He's  one  already. 
His  treasury  at  sunset  every  day 
Is  worse  than  empty  :  and  altho'ugh  the  tide 
Flowed  high  at  morn,  'tis  ebb  before  the  noon. 

NATHAN.     ' 

Because  it  flows  through  channels  such  as  we 
Can  neither  stop  nor  fill. 

DERVISI  . 

You  hit  the  truth. 

NATHAN. 

I  know  it  well. 

DERYl-l 

Ah  !  'tis  an  evil  case 
When  kings  are  vultures  amid  carcases, 
But  ten  times  worse  when  they're  the  carcases 
Amid  the  vultures. 


SCENE  III.]          NATHAN  THE  WISE.  29 

NATHAN. 

Dervise,  'tis  not  so. 

DERVISI:. 

Is  that  your  thought  ?    But,  come,  what  will  you  give 
If  I  resign  my  office  in  your  favor  ? 

NATHAN. 

What  are  your  profits  ? 

DERVISE. 

Mine?  not  much  :  but  you 

Would  soon  grow  rich  ;  for  when,  as  oft  occurs, 
Tin-  Sultan's  tivasury  is  at  an  ebb, 
You  might  unlock  your  sluicrs.  pour  in  Kold, 
And  take  in  form  of  interest  what  you  please. 

NATHAN. 

And  interest  on  the  interest  of  the  interest. 

DERVISH. 
Of  course. 

NATHAN. 

Until  my  capital  becomes 
All  interest. 

DERVISI  . 

Well !  is  not  the  offer  tempting? 
Farewell  forever  to  our  friendship  then, 
For  I  had  counted  on  you. 

NATHAN. 

How  so,  Hafi  ? 

DERVISE. 

I  thought  you  would  have  helped  me  to  discharge 
My  task  with  credit ;  that  I  should  have  found 
Your  treasury  ready.     Ah  !  you  shake  your  head. 

NATHAN. 

Let  us  explain.    We  must  distinguish  here. 


30  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.       [ACT  I. 

To  you,  Dervise  Al-Hafi,  all  I  have 
Is  welcome  ;  but  to  you,  the  Defterdar 
Of  Saladin— to  that  Al-Hafi,  who 

DERVl-I.. 

I  guessed  as  much.     You  ever  are  as  good 
As  you  are  wise  and  prudent.     Only  wait. 
The  two  Al-Hatis  you  di.M  in^ui.sh  thus 
Will  soon  be  parted,    Bee,  this  robe  of  honor, 
Which  Saladin  bestowed,  before  'tis  worn 

IL^S,  and  suited  to  a  Dervise  hack. 
AVill  in  .Jerusalem  lian.L:  fruin  a  nail; 
Whilst  1,  upon  the  Ganges,  scorching  strand, 
Barefoot  amid  my  teachers  will  be  found. 

NATHAN. 

That's  like  yourself ! 

DER\ 
Or  playing  chess  with  them. 

NATHAN. 

Your  greatest  bliss ! 

DKRV1BE, 

What    do  you  think  seduced  me? 
Hopes  of  escap inir  future  penury, 
The  pride  of  aclinic  the  ricli  mail  to  beggars, 
Would  this  have  metamorphosed  all  at  once 
The  richest  beggar  to  a  poor  rich  man  ? 

NATHAN. 

No. 

DEBYISB, 

But  I  yielded  to  a  sillier  whim. 
For  the  first  time  I  felt  myself  allured 
By  Saladin's  kind-hearted',  flattering  words, 

NATHAN, 

And  what  were  they? 

DERVISE. 

He  said  a  beggar's  wants 
Are  known  but  to  the  poor  alone  ;  that  they 


SCENE  I.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  31 

Alone  can  tell  how  want  should  be  relieved. 

"Thy  predecessor  was  too  cold,"  he  said, 

"  Too  harsh,  and  when  he  gave,  'twas  with  a  frown. 

He  searched  each  case  too  strictly,  not  content 

To  find  out  want,  he  would  explore  the  cause, 

And  thus  he  measured  out  his  niggard  alms. 

Not  so  wilt  thou  bestow,  and  Saladin 

Will  not  appear  so  harshly  kind  in  thee. 

Thou  are  not  like  that  choked-up  conduit-pipe, 

Whence  in  unequal  streams  the  water  flows, 

Which  it  receives  in  pure  and  copious  stores. 

Al-Hafi  thinks,  Al-Hafi  feels  like  me." 

The  fowler  whistled,  and  at  last  the  quail 

Ran  to  his  net.     Cheated,  and  by  a  cheat? 

NATHAN. 

Hush,  Dervise,  hush ! 

DERVISE. 

What !  is  it  not  a  cheat 

To  grind  mankind  by  hundred  thousands  thus! 
Oppress  them,  plunder,  butcher,  and  torment, 
And  singly  play  tin*  philanthropic  part? 
Not  cheating,  to  pretend  to  imitate 
That  heavenly  bounty,  which  in  even  course 
Descends  alike  on  desert  and  on  plain, 
On  good  and  bad,  in  sunshine  and  in  shower, 
And  not  possess  the  never  empty  hand 
Of  the  Most  High  !     Not  cheating 

NATHAN. 

Dervise,  cease ! 

DERVISE. 

Nay,  let  me  speak  of  cheating  of  my  own, 
How  now  ?    Were  it  not  cheating  to  seek  out 
The  bright  side  of  impostures  such  as  these, 
That  under  color  of  this  brighter  side 
I  might  take  part  in  them  ?    What  say  you  now  ? 

NATHAN. 

Fly  to  your  desert  quickly.     Amongst  men 
I  fear  you'll  soon  unlearn  to  be  a  man. 


32  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC   WORKS.        [ACT  L 

DERVISE. 

I  fear  so  too.     Farewell ! 

NATHAN. 

What,  so  abrupt  ? 

Stay,  stay,  Al-Hafi  !    Has  the  desert  wings  ? 
It  will  not  fly  away.     Here,  stay,  Al-Hafi  ! 
He's  gone  ;  he's  gone.     I  would  that  I  had  asked 
About  that  Templar  ;  he  must  know  the  man. 


SCENE  IV. 
DAJA  (rushing  tn),  NATHAN. 

DAJA. 

O  Nathan,  Nathan  ! 

NATHAN. 

Well!  what  now? 

DAJA. 

He's  there. 
He  shows  himself  once  more. 

NATHAN. 

Who,  Daja— who? 

DAJA. 
He— he! 

NATHAN. 

Where  cannot  he  be  found  ?    But  he 
You  mean,  is,  I  suppose,  the  only  He. 
That  should  not  be,  were  he  an  angel's  self. 

DAJA. 

Beneath  the  palms  he  wanders  up  and  down, 
And  gathers  dates. 

NATHAN. 

And  eats  them,  I  suppose, 
Just  as  a  Templar  would. 


SCENE  V.]  NATHAN  THE  WISK.  33 

DAJA. 

You  mock  me,  sir ! 
Her  eager  eye  espied  him  long  ago, 
When  scarcely  seen  amid  the  distant  trees. 
She  watches  him  intently,  and  implores 
That  you  will  go  to  him  without  delay. 
Then  go,  and  from  the  window  she  will  mark 
Which  way  his  paces  tend.     Go,  go  ;  make  haste  I 

NATHAN. 

What !  thus,  as  I  alighted  from  my  camel  ? 
Would  that  be  seemly  V     But  do  you  accost  him  ; 
Tell  him  of  my  return.     I  do  not  doubt 
You'll  find  the  honest  man  forbore  our  house 
Because  the  host  was  absent.     He'll  accept 
A  father's  invitation.     Say  I  ask  him. 
I  heartily  request  him. 

DAJA. 

All  in  vain  ! 
In  short,  he  will  not  visit  any  Jew. 

NATHAN. 

Then  use  your  best  endeavors  to  detain  him, 
Or,  with  unerring  eye,  observe  his  steps, 
And  mark  him  well.     Go,  I  shall  not  be  long. 

(NATHAN  enters  the  house.    DAJA  retires.) 


SCENE  V. 

A  Place  of  Palms.  The  TEMPLAR,  tvalking  to  and  fro ; 
a  FRIAR,  following  him  at  some  distance,  as  if  de- 
sirous of  addressing  him. 

TEMPLAR. 

It  cannot  be  for  pastime  that  this  man 
Follows  me  thus.     See  how  he  eyes  my  hands  ! 
Good  brother — or,  perhaps  I  should  say,  father  1 

2* 


34  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.       [ACT  L 

FRIAR. 

No,  brother  ;  a  lay  brother,  at  your  service. 

TEMPLAR. 

Well,  brother,  then,  if  I  had  anything — 
But  truly  I  have  nothing 

FRIAR. 

Thanks  the  same  t 

God  will  ivwanl  your  purpose  thousandfold. 
The  will  and  not  the  deed  perfVrt*  the  giver. 
Nor  was  I  sent  to  follow  ymi  for  alms. 

TI.MPLAR. 

Sent? 

FRIAR. 

From  the  convent. 

TEMPLAR. 

Where  I  even  now 
Was  hoping  to  partake  a  pilgrim's  fare. 

FRIAR. 

Tis  meal-time  now,  the  tables  all  are  full ; 
But  if  it  please  you,  we  will  turn  together. 

TEMPLAR. 

No  matter,  though  1  have  not  tasted  meat 
For  many  days  ;  these  dates,  you  see,  are  ripe. 

FRIAR. 

Be  sparing  of  that  fruit,  sir,  for  too  much 
Is  hurtful,  sours  the  blood,  and  makes  one  sad. 

TEMPLAR. 

And  what  if  sadness  suits  me  ?    Though,  methinks, 
'Twas  not  to  give  this  warning  that  you  came. 

FRIAR. 

Oh,  no  !  my  mission  was  to  question  you — 
To  feel  your  pulse  a  little. 


SCENE  V.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  35 

TEMPLAR. 

And  you  tell 
This  tale  yourself? 

FRIAR. 
Why  not  ? 

TEMPLAR. 

An  artful  soul !  (aside). 
And  has  the  convent  many  more  like  you  ? 

FRIAR. 

I  know  not.     Mere  obedience  is  my  duty. 

TEMPLAR. 

And  you  obey  without  much  questioning. 

FRIAR. 

Could  it  be  rightly  termed  obedience  else  ? 

TEMPLAR. 

The  simple  mind  is  ever  in  the  right. — (aside). 
But  will  you  not  inform  me  who  it  is 
That  wishes  to  know  more  of  me  ?    Not  you, 
I  dare  be  sworn. 

FRIAR. 

Would  such  a  wish  become 
Or  profit  me  ? 

TEMPLAR. 

Whom  would  it  then  become 
()r  profit  to  be  thus  inquisitive  ? 

FRIAR. 

Perhaps  the  Patriarch — 'twas  he  that  sent. 

TEMPLAR. 

The  Patriarch  ?  and  does  he  know  my  badge 
So  ill  ? — The  red  cross  on  the  snow-white  robe. 

FRIAR. 

Why?  I  know  that. 


36  I.KSSING'S  DRAMATIC   WORKS.       [ACT  L 

TEMPLAR. 

Well,  brother,  hear  me  out. 
I  am  a  Templar — and  a  prisoner  n<»\v. 
Made  captive  with  some  others  at  Tebnin, 
Whn^-  (ortreae  we  had  almost  taVn  by  storm 
.lu-t  as  the  truce  expired.     Our  hopes  had  been 
To  threaten  Sidon  next.     Of  twenty  knights 
Made  prisoners  there  together,  I  alone 
\\as  pa i -doned  by  command  of  Saladin. 
The  Patriarch  now  knows  what  he  requires, 
And  more  than  he  require. 

FRIAR. 

And  yet  no  more 

Than  he  had  learned  already.     He  would  ask 
Why  you.  of  all  the  captives  doomed  to  die, 
Alone  were  spa  \ 

TEMPLAR. 

Can  I  myself  tell  that? 
Already  with  bare  neck  1  had  knelt  down 
Upon  my  mantle,  to  await  the  stroke, 
\\hen  Saladin  with  steadfast  eye  surveys  m«'. 
Nearer  he  draw-;     he  makes  a  sign — they  raise  me^ 
I  am  unbound  — 1  would  BZpreflB  my  thanks— 
1  mark  the  tear-drop  glisten  in  his  eye — 
W.   both  stand  mute — he  turns  and  leaves  the  spot — 
I  stay.     And  now,  how  all  this  hangs  together, 
The  Patriarch  must  explain. 

FKIAR. 

The  Patriarch  thinks 
That  Heaven  preserved  you  for  some  mighty  deed. 

TEMPLAR. 

Some  mighty  deed  ?    To  rescue  from  the  flames 
A  Jewish  maid  !     To  lead  to  Sinai's  mount 
Bands  of  inquiring  pilgrims — and  the  like  ! 

FRIAR. 

The  time  may  come  for  more  important  tasks : 


SCENE  VJ  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  37 

Perhaps  the  Patriarch  has  already  planned 
Some  mighty  business  for  you. 

TEMPLAR. 

Think  you  so? 
Has  he  already  given  you  a  hint  ? 

FRIAR. 

Yes— but  my  task  is  first  to  sift  a  little, 
To  see/ if  you  are  one  to  undertake 

TEMPLAR. 

Well — sift  away  ?     (We'll  see  how  this  man  sifts)* 

FRIAR. 

The  better  course  will  be  to  name  at  once 
What  is  the  Patriarch's  desire. 

TEMPLAR. 

It  is ? 

FRIAR. 

To  make  you  bearer  of  a  letter. 

TEMPLAR. 

Me? 

I  am  no  carrier.     Is  that  the  office 
More  meritorious  than  to  save  from  death 
A  Jewish  maid  ? 

FRIAR. 

So,  truly,  it  would  seem, 
The  Patriarch  says  that  this  little  note 
Involves  the  general  weal  of  Christendom, 
And  that  to  bear  it  to  its  destined  hand, 
Safely,  will  merit  a  peculiar  crown 
From  Heaven — and  of  that  crown,  the  Patriarch 
Says  none  can  worthier  be  than  you. 

TEMPLAR. 

Than  I ! 

FRIAR. 

You  have  your  liberty — can  look  around  ; 


38  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.       [Acr  I. 

You  understand  how  cities  may  be  stormed, 

And  how  defended,  says  the  Patriarch  ; 

You  know  the  strength  and  weakness  of  the  towers, 

A  ncl  of  the  inner  rampart  lately  reared 

By  Saladin,  and  you  could  point  out  all 

To  the  Lord's  champions  fully. 

TEMPLAR. 

May  I  know 
Exactly  the  contents  of  this  same  letter? 

FRIAK. 

Of  that  I  am  not  quite  informed  myself. 

Tis  in  Kiiitf  Philip,   and  our   Patriarch— 

I  often  wonder  how  that  holy  man. 

\Vhos<*  every  thought  would  MM-IH  absorbed  hy  Heaven, 

Can  Moop  t<>  earthly  things,  and  how  his  mind 

Can  be  so  deeply  skilled  in  human  lore  - 

mm  \K. 

Well,  then,  your  Patriarch  -- 

I  KIAR. 

Exactly  knows 

From  secret  sources.  how,  and  with  what  force, 
And  in  what  <|uarter,  should  the  war  break  out, 
The  foe  and  Saladin  will  take  the  field. 

I  l.Mi'l.AK. 

Knows  he  so  much  ': 


Ay,  truly  !  and  he  longs 
To  -«-nd  the  urgent  tidings  to  King  Philip. 
That  he  may  better  calculate  if  now 
The  danger  !>»»  so  great,  as  to  demand 
At  every  hazard  that  he  should  renew 
The  truce  so  boldly  broken  by  the  Templars. 

TKMPLAR. 

The  noble  Patriarch  !     He  seeks  in  me 
No  common  herald,  but  the  meanest  spy. 


SCENE  V.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  ,       39 

Therefore,  good  brother,  tell  your  Patriarch, 
That  I  am  not — as  far  as  you  can  sift — 
The  man  to  suit  his  ends.     I  hold  myself 
A  captive  still.     I  know  a  Templar's  "duty  : 
Ready  to  die,  not  live  to  play  the  spy. 

FRIAR. 

I  thought  as  much.     Nor  can  I  censure  you 
For  your  resolve.     The  best  has  still  to  come. 
Our  Patriarch  has  learnt  the  very  fort. 
Its  name,  its  strength,  its  site  on  Lebanon, 
Wherein  those  countless  treasures  are  concealed, 
Wherewith  the  Sultan's  prudent  father  pays 
His  troops,  and  all  the  Ix-avy  costs  of  war. 
He  knows  that  Satadin,  from  time  to  time, 
Visits  this  fortress,  by  some  secret  way. 
With  but  a  few  attendants. 

TEMPLAR. 

Well !  what  then  ? 

FRIAR. 

Twould  be  an  easy  task,  methinks,  to  seize 

The  Sultan  thus  defenceless — and  to  end  him. 

You  shudder,  knight !    Two  monks  who  fear  the  Lord 

Are  ready  now  to  undertake  the  task, 

And  wait  a  leader. 

TEMPLAR. 

And  the  Patriarch 
Has  pitched  on  me  to  do  this  noble  deed  ? 

FRIAR. 

He  thinks  King  Philip  might  from  Ptolemais 
Give  aid  in  the  design. 

TEMPLAR. 

Has  pitched  on  me  I 

On  me  !— Say,  brother,  have  you  never  heard 
The  boundless  debt  I  owe  to  Saladin  ? 

FRIAR. 
Truly  I  have. 


40  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.       [Acr  L 

TEMPLAR. 

And  yet  - 

FRIAR. 

The  Patriarch 

Says  that  is  very  well  ;  but  yet  your  order, 
And  vows  to  God  - 

TEMPLAR. 

Change  nothing  ;  they  command 
No  villainy. 

FRIAR. 

No.     But  the  Patriarch 
Says  what  seems  villainy  to  human  eyes, 
May  not  appear  so  in  the  sight  of  God. 

TEMPLAR. 

Brother,  1  <>\v«i  my  life  to  Saladin. 
And  his  shall  my  hand  t.ik-  ! 


Oh,  no  !—  But  yet 
The  Patriarch  maintains  that  Saladin, 

"Who  is  the  common  f  ......  !    Christendom, 

Can  never  have  a  claim  to  be  your  friend. 

TEMPLAR. 

My  friend  ?  forsooth  !  because  I  will  not  be 
A  thankless  wretch  to  him  ! 

FKIAR. 

>o  !—  But  yet 

The  Patriarch  thinks  gratitude  is  not 
Before  the  eyes  of  God  or  man,  a  debt, 
Unless,  for  our  own  sakes,  some  benefit 
Has  been  confern  -d  :  and.  says  the  Patriarch, 
It  is  affirmed  the  Sultan  spared  your  life 
Merely  because  your  voice,  your  look,  your  air, 
Awoke  a  recollection  of  his  brother  - 

TEMPLAR. 

He  knows  all  this,  and  yet?  -  Ah,  were  it  true  ! 


SCENE  VI.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  41 

And,  Saladin.  could  Nature  form  in  me 
A  single  feature  in  thy  brother's  likeness, 
With  nothing  in  my  soul  to  answer  it  ? 
Or  what  does  correspond,  shall  I  belie 
To  please  a  Patriarch  ?     No,  surely  Nature 
Could  never  lie  so  basely      Nor,  kind  God, 
Couldst  thou  so  contradict  Thyself !    Go,  brother, 
And  do  not  rouse  my  anger. 

FRIAR. 

I  withdraw 

More  gladly  than  I  came.     And,  pardon  me : 
A  monk's  first  duty,  sir,  is  to  obey. 


SCENE  VI.— Tfie  TEMPLAR  and  DAJA. 

(She  has  been  watching  him  from  afar  and  now  op» 
preaches. ) 

DAJA. 

Methinks  the  monk  left  him  in  no  good  mood, 
But,  spite  of  that,  I  must  my  errand  risk. 

I  I.MPLAR. 

This  hits  exactly.     As  the  proverb  goes, 
Women  and  monks  are  ever  Satan's  tools, 
And  I  to-day  am  subject  to  them  both. 

DAJA. 

Whom  do  I  see  ?    Thank  God,  our  noble  knight. 
Where  have  you  been  so  long  ?    Not  ill,  I  hope  ? 

TEMPLAR. 

No. 

DAJA. 

In  good  health  ? 

TEMPLAR. 

Yes. 


42  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.       [Acr  L 

DAJA. 

We  have  all  been  grieved 

Lest  something  should  have  ailed  you.     Have  you  been 
Upon  a  journey  ? 

TEMPLAR. 

Fairly  guessed. 

DAJA. 

Since  when 
Have  you  returned  to  us  ? 

TEMPLAR. 

Since  yesterday. 

DAJA. 

Our  Recha's  father,  too,  is  just  returned, 
And  now  may  Recha  hope  at  last. 

TEMPLAR. 

For  what? 

DAJA. 

For  what  she  has  so  often  asked  in  vain. 

U«  r  I'.-itln-r  pivssiiitfly   invites  you  too. 

H.-i;ii.-iy  has  arrived  from  Babylon 
With  twenty  camels,  bearing  precious  stones, 
Ami  stuffs  and  fragrant  spices,  whi.-h  he  nought 
In  India,  Persia,  Syria,  and  China. 

TEMPLAR. 

I  am  no  merchant. 

DAJA. 

He  is  much  esteemed 
By  all  his  nation — honored  as  a  prince — 
And  yet  to  hear  how  lie  is  named  by  all 
Nathan  the  Wise,  and  not  the  Rii-l .  Beemfl  strange. 
It  often  makes  me  wonder. 

TEMPLAR. 

But  to  them 
It  may  be,  urise  and  rich — both  mean  the  same. 


SCENE  V.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  43 

DAJA. 

It  seems  to  me  he  should  be  called  the  Good, 
So  rich  a  store  of  goodness  dwells  in  him. 
Since  he  has  learned  the  weighty  debt  he  owes 
For  service  done  to  Recha  there  is  nought 
He  would  withhold  from  you. 

TEMPLAR. 

Well? 

DAJA. 

Try  him,  sir  I 

TEMPLAK. 

What  then  ?    A  moment  passes  soon  away. 

DAJA. 

I  had  not  dwelt  with  him  so  many  y. 
Were  he  less  kind.     I  know  a  Christian's  worth, 
And  it  was  never  oVr  my  rradh-  sung 
That  I  to  Palest i in-  should  wrnd  my  way, 
Following  a  husband's  steps.  t;,  educate 
A  Jewish  maid.     My  hushand  was  a  page, 
A  noble  page,  in  Emperor  Frederick's  court 

TK.Ml'LAK. 

By  birth  a  Swiss,  who  earned  the  sorry  fame 
Of  drowning  in  one  river  with  his  lord. 
Woman  !  how  often  have  you  told  this  tale  ? 
When  will  you  cease  to  persecute  me  thus  ? 

DAJA. 
To  persecute  you ! 

TK.MPLAR. 

Ay,  to  persecute  ! 

Now  mark  me.     I  will  never  see  you  more, 
Hear  you,  nor  be  reminded  of  a  deed 
Performed  at  random.     When  I  think  of  it, 
I  wonder  somewtiat,  though  I  ne'er  repent. 
But  hear  me  still.     Should  such  a  fatal  chance 
Again  occur,  you  have  yourself  to  blame 
If  I  proceed  more  calmly,  question  first. 
And  let  what's  burning,  burn. 


44  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.       [Acr  L 

DAJA. 

Great  God  forbid  I 

TEMPLAR. 

And  now  I  have  a  favor  to  implore. 

Know  me  henceforth  no  more.     Grant  me  this  grace, 

And  save  me  1'mm  h«-r  lather  ;  for  with  me 

A  Jew's  a  Jew  ;  a  Swabian  blunt  am  I. 

The  image  of  the  maid  is  nmv  erased 

Out  of  my  soul — if  it  was  ever  there. 

DAJA. 

But  yours  remains  \\ith-her. 

TEMP  I.  A  K. 

Well,  and  what  then? 

DAJA. 

Who  knows?    Men  are  not  always  what  they  seem. 

TEMPLAR. 

They're  seldom  better.  (Going.) 

DAJA. 

Slay  a  little  while. 
What  need  of  haste? 

TEMPLAR. 

Woman!  forbear  to  make 
Tlu -so  palm-trees  odious  :  I  have  loved  their  shade. 

DAJA. 

Then  go,  thou  German  bear  :     Vet  I  must  follow  him. 
(She  follows  him  at  a  distance.) 


SCENE  I.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  45 


ACT  II. 

SCENE  I. — The  Sultan's  Palace. 
SALADIN  and  SITTAH  (playing  at  chess). 

SITTAH. 

Where  are  your  thoughts?     How  ill  you  play,  dear 
brother ! 

SALADIN. 

Not  well  in  truth — and  yet  I  thought 

SITTAH. 

Oh,  yes  I 
You're  playing  well  for  me  ;  take  back  that  move. 

SALADIN. 

Why? 

SITTAH. 

Don't  you  see  you  leave  your  knight  exposed  ? 

SALADIN. 

Ay,  true  ! — then  so. 

SITTAH. 

And  now  I  take  your  pawn. 

SALADIN. 

That's  true  again,  dear  Sittah  !    Well,  then,  check ! 

SITTAH. 

That  will  not  help  you — I  protect  my  king, 
And  all  is  safe  again. 

SALADIN. 

Well,  out  of  this 
Dilemma  'tis  not  easy  to  escape. 
I  cannot  save  the  knight. 


46  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.     [ACT  IL 

SITTAH. 

I  pass  him  by  ; 
I  will  not  take  him. 

SALADIN. 

Well,  I  owe  you  nothing; 
The  place  you  gain  is  better  than  the  piece. 

SITTAH. 

Perhaps. 

SALADIN. 

But  reckon  not  without  your  host ; 
You  did  not  see  that  move. 

SITTAH. 

Not  I,  indeed ; 
I  did  not  think  you  weary  of  your  queen. 

SALADIN. 

My  queen  ! 

SITTAH. 

Well,  well  !     1  s«**«  that  I  to-day 
Shall  win  my  thousand  dinars  and  no  more. 

SALADIN. 

Whyto? 

MTTAH. 

Why  so  ?    Because  designedly 
You  lose  the  game  !    You  vex  me,  Salad  in  ! 
1  find  no  pleasure  in  a  game  like  this. 
And  even  when  I  lose,  I  come  otf  well  : 
For,  to  console  me  for  the  games  you  win, 
You  force  me  to  accept  a  double  stake. 

SALADIN. 

In  that  case,  then,  it  may  be  by  design 

That  you  have  sometimes  lost.     Is  that  the  truth? 

SITTAH. 

At  least  your  generosity's  to  blame 
That  I  improve  so  little  in  my  play. 


SCENE  I.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  47 

SALADIN. 

But  we  forget  the  game  ;  come,  finish  it. 

SITTAH. 

Well,  'tis  my  move  ;  now,  check  to  king  and  queen  I 

SALADIN. 

Indeed  !  I  did  not  see  the  double  check. 
I  lose  my  queen. 

SITTAH. 
Let's  see  !    Can  it  be  helped  ? 

SALADIN. 

No,  take  the  queen — I  have  no  luck  with  her. 

SITTAH. 
Only  with  her  ? 

SALADIN. 

Remove  her  from  the  board. 
I  shall  not  miss  her.     Now  I  am  right  again. 

SITTAH. 

I  know  from  lessons  which  yourself  have  taught 
How  courteously  we  should  behave  to  queens. 

(Offering  to  restore  the  piece.) 

SALADIN. 

Take  her  or  not,  I  shall  not  move  her  more. 

SITTAH. 
Why  need  I  take  her?    Check,  and  check ! 

SALADIN. 

Goon. 

SITTAH. 

Check,  check,  and  check  again  ! 

SALADIN. 

'Tis  checkmate  now. 


48  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.      [Acr  IL 

SITTAH. 

Hold  !— no,  not  yet.     You  may  advance  the  knight, 
And  ward  the  danger.     But  'twill  be  the  same. 

SALADIN. 

You  are  the  winner,  and  Al-Hafi  pays. 

Let  him  be  called.  Sit  tali  !     You  were  not  wrong. 

My  thoughts  were  wandering — were  not  in  the  game, 

But  who  gives  us  so  oft  these  shapeless  bits 

Of  wood  ?  which  speak  ot 'nan-  i  st  no  thought. 

Was  it   with  Iinan  that   I've  played  —  Well,  well. 

Ill-luck  is  ever  wont  to  s«  ek  excuse. 

Not  the  unmeaning  squares  or  shapeless  men 

Have  made  me  heedless;  your  dexterity. 

Your  calm,  sharp  eye,  dear  Sittah  !— 

SITTAH. 

What  of  that? 

Is  that  to  blunt  the  sting  of  your  defeat? 
Enough— your   thoughts  were  wandering  more  than 

mine. 

SALAMN. 

Than  yours  ?  What  subject  could  engage  your  thoughts  ? 

SITTAH 

Far  different  cares  than  those  which  trouble  you. 
But,  Saladin,  say.  when  shall  we  again 
Resume  this  pleasant  pastime? 

SALAI'IN. 

Dearest  Sittah, 

This  interruption  will  but  whet  our  /eal. 

Your  thoughts  are  on  the  war:  well,  let  it  come— 

Twas  not  my  arm  that  first  unsheathed  the  sword  ; 

I  would  have  willingly  prolonged  the  truce, 

And  willingly  have  Imit  a  tender  bond, 

For  Sittah *s  sake,  with  Kn-hard's  noble  brother. 

SITTAH. 

flow  pleased  you  are,  can  you  but  praise  your  Richard. 


SCENE  I.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  49 

SALADIX. 

If  Richard's  sister  had  but  been  bestowed 
Upon  our  brother  Melek,  what  a  house 
Had  then  been  ours  !  the  best,  the  happiest 
The  earth  could  boast.     You  know  I  am  not  slow 
To  praise  myself :  I'm  worthy  of  my  friends. 
What  men  these  unions  would  have  given  us ! 

SITTAH. 

Did  I  not  smile  at  once  at  your  fine  dreams  ? 
You  do  not,  will  not,  know  the  Christian  race. 
It  is  their  pride  not  to  be  men,  but  Christians. 
The  virtue  which  their  founder  felt  and  taught, 
The  charity  He  mingled  with  their  creed, 
Is  rained,  not  because  it  is  humane, 
And  good,  and  lovely,  but  for  this  alone, 
That  it  was  Christ  who  taught  it,  Christ  who  did  it. 
'Tis  well  for  them  He  was  so  good  a  man, 
Well  that  they  take  His  goodness  all  mi  trust, 
And  in  His  virtues  put  their  faith.     His  virtues ! 
Tis  not  His  virtues,  but  His  name  alone 
They  wish  to  thrust  upon  us — His  mere  name, 
Which  they  desire  should  overspread  the  world, 
Should  swallow  up  the  name  of  all  good  men, 
And  put  the  rest  to  shame.     'Tis  for  His  name 
Alone  they  care. 

SALADIN. 

Else,  Sittah,  as  you  say. 

They  would  not  have  required  that  you  and  Melek 
Should  be  called  Christians,  ere  they  suffered  you 
To  feel  for  Christians  the  pure  flame  of  love. 

SITTAH. 

As  if  from  Christians,  and  from  them  alone, 
That  love  can  be  expected,  which  the  hand 
Of  our  Creator  gives  to  man  and  wife . 

SALADIN. 

Christians  believe  such  vain  absurdities, 

That  this  may  be  among  them.     And  yet,  Sittah, 

The  Templars,  not  the  Christians,  are  in  this 


jo  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.      [ACT  II. 

To  blame.     Tis  they  alone  who  thwart  my  plans  ; 
'Tis  they  who  still  hold  Area,  pledged  to  us 
By  treaty  asthedower  of  Richard '<  ^Ntrr. 
And,  to  maintain  their  order's  interests, 
They  use  this  cant — the  nonsense  of  the  monk. 
Scarce  wrould  they  wait  until  the  truce  expired 
Tn  fall  upon  us.     But,  go  on,  good  sirs  ! 
Would  that  all  else  may  thrive  as  well  as  this  ! 

BTTTAH. 

Why,  what  else  tn>ul>l<-s  you?    What  other  care 
Have  you  to  struggle  with  ': 

SALADIN. 

That  constant  grief— 
I've  been  to  Lebanon,  and  seen  our  father, 
He's  full  of  can-. 

HTTAH, 
Alas! 

SALAMN. 

He  must  give  way. 

si  raitened  on  every  side,  no  aid,  no  help, 
Nothing  comes  in. 

SITTAH. 
What  ails  him,  Saladin  ? 

S A  LA  I  UN. 

Tin-  only  thing  that  I  am  loth  to  name, 
Which,  when  I  have  it,  so  superfluous  seems, 
And,  when  1  have  it  not.  sary. 

\Yh»>n-  is  Al-Hali  ?    Have  they  gone  for  him? 
Will  no  one  go  ?     Oh.  fatal.  rurs«»d  money  ! 
Welcome,  Al-Hafi  !     You  are  come  at  last. 

SCENE  II. 
The  DERVISE  AL-HAFI,  SALADIN,  and  SITTAH. 

AL-HAFI. 

The  gold  from  Egypt,  I  suppose,  is  come. 
Say,  is  it  much  ? 


Sci  NE  II.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  51 

SALADIN. 

What !  have  you  heard  of  it  ? 

AL-HAFI. 

Not  I.     I  thought  I  should  receive  it  here. 

SALADIN  (pacing  thoughtfully  to  and  fro). 
Sittah  has  won  a  thousand  dinars,  pay  them. 

AL-HAFI. 

Pay  without  getting.  That  is  worse  than  nothing  I 

Aii'l  still  to  Sittah — once  again  for  elites  ! 

But  let  us  see  the  board  ;  how  stands  the  game? 

SITTAH. 

You  grudge  me  my  good  fortune  ? 

AL-HAFI  (examiniinj  the  b<Htn1). 

Grudge  you  ?    When — 
You  know  too  well 

SITTAH  (making  signs  to  him) . 

Oh,  hush  !  Al-Hafi,  hush  ! 
AL-HAFI  (still  examining  the  board). 
Don't  grudge  it  to  yourself. 

SITTAH. 

Al-Hafi,  hush  I 

AL-HAFI. 

And  were  the  white  men  yours  ? 

You  gave  the  check  ? 
SITTAH. 

Tis  well  he  does  not  hear. 

AL-HAFI. 

The  move  is  his. 
SITTAH  (approaching  nearer) . 
Then  promise  me  that  I  shall  have  the  money. 
AL-HAFI  (still  intent  upon  the  board). 
You  shall  receive  it  as  you've  always  done. 


52  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC   WORKS.      [Acr  II. 

SITTAH. 
How  !  are  you  mad  ? 

AL-HAFI. 

The  game's  not  over  yet. 
You  have  not  lost  it,  Saladin. 

SALADIN  (pay i n< 1 1 m  <tttention). 

Oh,  yes ; 
Pay  down  the  money. 

ALrHAFI. 

Pay  !  here  stands  the  queen. 

SALADIN  (*////  hmlless). 

She's  of  no  use  ;  she's  lost. 

SITTAH. 

Do  say  that  I 
May  send  and  fetch  the  gold. 

AL-HAFI  (still  xtmlt/iny  the  game). 

Oh,  yes  !  of  course. 
But  though  the  queen  be  lost,  you  are  not  mate. 

SALADIN  (dashing  down  the  board). 
I  say  I  am.     I  will  be  mate. 

AL-HAFI. 

If  SO, 

Small  pains,  small  gains,  says  I.    So  got,  so  spent. 

SALADIN. 

What  is  he  muttering  there  ? 

SITTAH  (to  SALADIN,  making  a  sign  meanwhile  to  AL- 
HAFI). 

Y«»u  know  him  well. 

He  likes  entreaties— loves  to  be  implored. 
Who  knows  if  he  be  not  a  little  jealous  ? 

SALADIN. 

Well,  not  of  thee — not  of  my  sister,  surely. 
What  do  I  hear  ?    Al-Hafi,  are  you  jealous  ? 


SCENE  II.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  53 

AL-HAFI. 

Perhaps  I  am.     I  wish  I  had  her  head, 
Or  that  I  were  as  good  as  she. 

SITTAH. 

My  brother, 

He  always  pays  me  fairly,  and  to-day 
He'll  do  the  same.     Let  him  alone.     Now  go ! 
Al-Hafi  !  go !  I'll  have  the  money 

AL-HAFI. 

No,  not  I. 
I'll  act  this  farce  no  more.    He  must  know  soon. 

SALADIN. 

Who?  what? 

SITTAH. 

Al-Hafi  !  say,  is  this  your  promise  ? 
Is't  thus  you  keep  your  word  ? 

AL-HAFI. 

Could  I  foresee 
That  it  would  come  to  this  ? 

SALADIN. 

Well,  tell  me  all. 

SITTAH. 

Al-Hafi  !    I  implore  you,  be  discreet. 

SALADIN. 

'Tis  very  strange  ;  and  what  can  Sittah  have 
So  earnestly  to  sue  for,  from  a  stranger — 
A  Dervise — rather  than  from  me,  her  brother? 
Al-Hafi,  I  command  you.     Dervise,  speak. 

SITTAH. 

Let  not  a  trifle  touch  my  brother  nearer 
Than  is  becoming,  for  you  know  that  I 
Have  often  won  as  much  from  you  at  chess. 
But  as  I  stand  in  little  need  of  gold, 
I've  left  the  money  in  Al-Hafi's  chest, 


54  LESSINCS  DRAMATIC   WORKS.      [ACT  II 

Which  is  not  over  full ;  but  never  fear, 
It  is  not  my  intention  to  bestow 
My  wealth  on  either  of  you. 

AL-HAFI. 

Were  this  all ! 

SITTAH. 

Some  more  such  trill*--;  an-  perhaps  unclaimed  : 
My  own  allowance,  which  you  set  apart 
lias  lain  some  months  untouched 

AL-HAFl. 

Nor  is  this  all. 

SALAIMN. 

Then  tell  the  whole. 

AL-HAFL 

Whilst  we've  been  waiting  for 
The  gold  from  Egypt,  she — 

SITTAH. 

Nay,  hear  him  not. 

;  \FI. 

Not  only  has  had  nothing, — 

SALAIMN. 

Mster  !— 
But  also  has  been  lending  it  to  you? 

ALII  All. 

Ay  !  at  her  sole  expense  maintain.  <1  your  state. 

SALAD1N  (embmrfiifj  her). 

So  like  my  sister  ! 

SITTAH. 

AVI  10  but  you.  my  brother, 
Could  make  me  rich  enough  "to  have  the  power  ? 

AL-HAFI. 

And  soon  he'll  make  her  once  again  as  poor 
As  he  is  now. 


SCENE  II.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  55 

SALADIN. 

I  poor  !  her  brother  poor  ! 
When  had  I  more — when  had  I  less  than  now? 
A  cloak,  a  horse,  a  sabre,  and  my  God  ! 
What  need  I  else  ?  and  these  ne'er  can  I  lack. 
And  yet,  Al-Hafi,  I  could  scold  you  now. 

SITTAH. 

Nay,  brother,  do  not  scold.     I  would  that  I 
Could  thus  also  relieve  our  father's  cares  ! 

SALADIN. 

Ah,  now  my  joy  has  vanished  all  at  once. 
We  can  want  nothing  ;  but  he's  destitute. 
And  whilst  hr  wants,  we  all  are  poor  indeed. 
What  shall  I  do  ?    From  Egypt  we  can  hope 
For  nothing — though  (Jod  only  knows  the  cause. 
Tis  general  peace  around,  and  as  for  me, 
I  could  live  sparingly,  reduce,  retrench, 
If  none  else  suffered  ;  but  'twould  not  avail. 
A  cloak,  a  hors.-.  a  sword  I  ne'er  can  want. 
As  to  my  God,  He  is  not  to  be  bought. 
He  asks  but  little,  only  asks  my  heart. 
I  had  relied,  Al-Hafi,  on  your  chest, 
Upon  the  surplus  there. 

AL-HAFI. 

A  surplus  there  ! 

Say,  should  I  not  have  been  impaled  or  hanged, 
If  I  had  been  detected  hoarding  up 
A  surplus  ?    Deficits  I  might  have  ventured. 

SALADIN. 

Well,  but  what  next  ?    Could  you  have  found  out  none 
To  borrow  from,  but  Sittah  ? 

SITTAH. 

And  would  I 

Have  borne  it,  had  another  been  preferred  ? 
I  claim  that  privilege.     I  am  not  yet 
Quite  beggared. 


56  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.      [ACT  II. 

S  A  LA  DIN. 

No,  not  quite.     Dear  Sittah,  this 
Alone  was  wanting.     But,  Al-Hafi,  go, 
Inquire  about,  take  where  and  what  you  can  ; 
Borrow  on  promise,  contract,  anyhow  ; 
But,  mark  me,  not  from  those  I  have  enriched. 
Twould  seem  as  if  I  wished  to  have  it  back. 
Go  to  the  covetous.    They  gladliest  lend. 
They  know  how  well  their  money  thrives  with  me. 

AL-HAFI. 

I  know  of  none. 

MIT  AH. 

I  recolltvt  just  now, 
I  heard,  Al-Hafi,  of  your  friend's  return. 

AL-HAFI  (starting). 
Friend  !  friend  of  mine  !  and  who  can  that  be,  pray? 

SITTAII. 

Your  boasted  Jew. 

AL-HAFI. 

A  Jew  !  and  praised  by  me  ! 

SITTAII. 

On  whom  his  (iod— I  think  I  recollect 
The  very  words  you  used,  as  touching  him — 
On  whom  his  God,  of  all  the  choicest  goods 
Of  earth,  in  full  abundance,  has  bestow,  d 
The  greatest  and  the  least. 

ALrHAFI. 

What  could  I  mean 
When  I  said  so? 

SITTAH. 

The  least  of  good  things — wealth. 
The  greatest — wisdom  ! 

AL-HAFI. 

How  I  and  of  a  Jew 
Did  I  say  that? 


SCENE  II.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  57 

SITTAH. 

Ay,  that  you  did — of  Nathan. 

AL-HAFI. 

Oh,  true  !  of  Nathan — yes  !    He  did  not  now 
Occur  to  me.     But  lie's  returned  at  last, 
Then  do  not  doubt  that  he's  well  off.     He's  called 
The  Wise,  the  Rich,  by  all  the  Jewish  folk. 

SITTAH. 

Now  more  than  ever  is  lie  named  the  Kirh. 
The  town  resounds  with  news  of  costly  stuffs 
And  priceless  treasures  he  has  brought  with  him. 

AL-HAFI. 

Is  he  the  Rich  once  more  ?    Then,  do  not  fear, 
He'll  be  the  Wise  again. 

SITTAH. 

What  think  you  ?    Will 
You  visit  him,  Al-Hafi  ? 

AL-HAFI. 

What,  to  borrow  ? 

You  know  him,  surely  !    Think  you  he  will  lend  ? 
His  very  wisdom  lies  in  this — that  he 
Will  lend  to  no  one. 

SITTAH. 

Formerly  you  gave 
A  picture  very  different  of  him. 

AL-HAFI. 

In  case  of  need  he'll  lend  you  merchandise  ; 
But  money — money — never  !     He's  a  Jew, 
Who  has  not  many  equals  'mongst  his  tribe. 
He's  wise,  knows  how  to  live,  can  play  at  chess, 
Excels  in  evil,  too,  as  well  as  good. 
Rely  not  on  him.     To  the  poor,  indeed, 
He  vies  with  Saladin  himself  in  gifts  ; 
And  if  not  quite  so  much,  he  gives  as  freely, 
To  Jew,  and  Christian,  and  Mahometan — 
To  all  alike. 
3* 


58  : .KSSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.      [ACT  IL 

SITTAH. 
And  such  a  man  as  this 

SALADIN. 

How  comes  it,  then,  I  never  heard  of  him  ? 

SITTAH. 

Can  he  refuse  to  lend  to  Saladin, 
Who  wants  for  others — never  for  himself. 

ALrHAFI. 

Ay,  there  peeps  out  the  Jew— the  vulgar  Jew  : 

Believe  me,  he  is  jealous,  envious 

Of  generosity.     It  seems  as  though 

To  earn  God  s  favor  were  his  special  mission. 

And  that  he  may  possess  wherewith  to  gi 

\if  never  lends.    The  law  he  serves,  commands 

That  li«- show  mercy,  but  not  complaiaanoe. 

Thus  him  has  mercy  ma< le  t  lie  rudest  churl 

In  all  the  world.     Tis  true  I  have  not  U-rn 

This  IOIIK  time  past  on  friendly  terms  with  liim; 

Hut  tlo  not  think  that  I  would  do  him  \vron^. 

He's  good  in  all  tilings  else,  hut  not  in  that; 

Therefore  I'll  go  and  Knock  at  other  doors. 

I  recollect  this  instant  an  old  Moor, 

Who's  rich  and  covetous :  I'll  go  to  him.     (Exit.) 

BRTAH. 
Why  in  such  haste,  Al-Hafi? 

SALAMN. 

Let  him  go. 

SCENE  III. 
SITTAH,  SALADIN. 

SITTAH. 

He  speeds  away,  as  though  he  would  escape. 
Why  so  ?    Is  he  indeed  himself  deceived, 
Or  would  he  now  mislead  me  ? 


SCENE  III.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  59 

SALADIN. 

Can  I  guess  ? 

I  scarcely  know  the  man  of  whom  you  speak, 
And,  for* the  first  time,  hear  to-day  of  him. 

SITTAH. 

Can  it  be  possible  you  know  him  not 

Who,  it  is  said,  has  visited  the  tombs 

Of  Solomon  and  David  ;  knows  the  spell 

To  ope  their  marble  lids,  and  thence  obtain 

The  boundless  stores  that  claim  no  lesser  source. 

SALADIN. 

Were  this  man's  wealth  by  miracle  procured, 

'Tis  not  at  Solomon's  or  David's  tomb 

That  it  is  found.     Mere  mortal  fools  lie  there. 

SITTAH. 

Or  knaves  ! — But  still  his  source  of  opulence 
Is  more  productive,  more  exhaustless  than 
A  cave  of  Mammon. 

SALADIN. 

For  he  trades,  I'm  told. 

SITTAH. 

His  caravans  through  every  desert  toil, 
His  laden  camels  throng  the  public  roads, 
His  ships  in  every  harbor  furl  their  sails. 
Al-Hafi  long  ago  has  told  me  this, 
Adding,  with  pride,  how  Nathan  gives  away, 
What  he  esteems  it  noble  to  have  earned 
By  patient  industry,  for  others'  wants  ; 
How  free  from  bias  is  his  lofty  soul, 
His  heart  to  every  virtue  how  unlocked, 
To  every  lovely  feeling  how  allied  ! 

SALADIN. 

And  yet  Al-Hafi  spoke  with  coldness  of  him. 

SITTAH. 

Not  coldness,  but  unwillingness,  as  if 

He  deemed  it  dangerous  to  praise  too  much, 


60  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.       [Aci  II. 

Yet  knew  not  how  to  blame  without  a  cause. 
Or  can  it  be,  in  truth,  that  e'en  the  best 
Amongst  a  tribe  can  never  miite  escape 
Th««  foibles  of  their  race,  and  tliat.  in 
Al-Hafi  has  in  this  to  blu^h  for  Nathan? 
But  come  what  may.  let  him  be  Jew  or  not, 
If  he  be  rich,  that  is  enough  for  me. 

SALADIN. 

You  would  not,  sister,  take  his  wealth  by  force? 

SITTAH. 

I'.y  force?  What  mean  yen  .'    Fire  and  sword  ?   Oh, no! 
What   force  is  ne068Barj  with  the  \veak 

I'.ut  their  own  vreakofln  '.-    (  tome  a\\  hile  with  me, 

Into  my  harem.      I  have  bought  a  sen 

You  have  not   heard — she  cam •    1-tit  vMenlay. 

i  while  I'll  think  upon  a  subtle  plan 
lor  this  same  Nathan.     Follow.  Saladin  ! 


SCENE  IV. 

Tin1  rittcc  of  Palms,  near  N  Jiouse,  from  which 

crad  NATHAN   are  <•<>,,  ,ing;  DAJA,  meeting 


RECH  A. 

Dear  father  !  you  have  been  so  slow,  that  you 
Will  scarcely  meet  him  now. 

NATHAN. 

Well,  well,  my  child  ; 
If  not  beneath  the  palms,  be  sure  that  we 
Shall  meet  him  somewhere  else.     Be  satisfied. 
N  m>t  that  Daja  whom  I  see  approaching? 

RECHA. 

She  certainly  has  lost  him. 

NATHAN. 

Wherefore  so  ? 


SCENE  IV.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  6l 

RECHA. 

Her  pace  were  quicker  else. 

NATHAN. 

She  has  not  seen  us. 

RECHA. 

There,  now  she  spies  us. 

NATHAN. 

And  her  speed  redoubles. 
Recha,  be  calm  ! 

RECHA. 

What  !   would  you  have  your  child 
Be  cold  and  unconcerned  about  his  fate 
To  whom  her  life  is  due  ?— a  1  i  f <  •  to  her 
But  dear  because  she  o\v r<l  it  firM  to  you. 

N  \  THAN. 

I  would  not  \\  Uh  you  other  than  you  are, 
E'en  if  I  knew  that  in  your  secret  soul 
Another  and  a  different  feeling  throbs. 

RECHA. 

What  means  my  father? 

NATHAN. 

Do  you  ask  of  me— 

So  tremblingly  of  me  ?    What  passes  now 
Within  your  soul  is  innocence  and  nature. 
Nay,  fear  not,  for  it  gives  me  no  alarm. 
But  promise,  if  the  heart  shall  ever  speak 
A  plainer  language,  you  will  not  conceal 
One  single  of  your  wishes  from  my  love. 

RECHA. 

Oh,  the  bare  thought  that  I  should  ever  wish 

To  hide  them  from  my  father,  makes  me  shudder. 

NATHAN. 

Recha,  enough  of  this.     Now,  what  says  Daja  ? 


62  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.      [Acr  IL 

DAJAl* 

He's  still  beneath  the  palms,  and  presently 
He'll  reach  yon  wall.    See  I  here  he  conies  at  last. 

\ 

RECHA. 

He  seems  irresolute  which  way  to  turn, 
To  left  or  rig! it  ! 

DAJA. 

His  custom  is  to  seek 

The  convent  walls,  so  lie  will  ]>a>^  this  way. 
What  will  you  wager?    Yes.  lie  < -nines  to  us. 

RECHA. 

1  -I  i  - h  t  !    Did  you  speak  to  him  ?    How  did  he  look  ? 

DAJA. 

As  usual. 

NATHAN. 

Do  not  let  hi  in  s«»e  you  here. 
Stand  farther  back,  or  to  the  house  retire. 

!IA. 

Just  one  look  more.     All !  the  trees  hide  him  now. 

DAJA. 

Come,  come  away  !     Recha.  your  father's  right. 
Should  he  observe  us  he'll  retire  at  once. 

RECHA. 
Alas  1  the  trees 

NATHAN. 

Now  he  emerges  from  them. 
He  can't  but  see  you.     Hence  !  I  beg  of  you. 

DAJA. 

Come,  Recha,  come  !    I  know  a  window  whence 
We  may  observe  him  better. 

RECHA. 

Come,  then,  come. 

(They  both  retire.) 


SCENE  V.]  NATHAN  TH£  WISE.  63 

SCENE  V. 
NATHAN  (ivho  is  presently  joined  by  the  TEMPLAR). 

NATHAN. 

I  almost  shrink  from  meeting  this  strange  fellow — 
Recoil  from  his  rough  virtue  !    That  one  man 
Should  ever  make  another  feel  confused  ! 
But  see,  he  comes  !  lie  seems  a  noble  youth  ; 
Looks  like  a  man.     I  like  his  daring  eye, 
His  honest  gait.     Although  the  shell  is  bitter, 
The  kernel  may  not  be  so.     I  have  seen 
One  like  him  somewhere.     Pardon,  noble  Frank 

TEMPLAR. 

What  would  you  ? 

NATHAN. 

Pardon  me 

TEMPLAR. 

What  would  you,  Jew? 

NATHAN. 

The  privilege  of  speaking  to  you. 

TEMPLAR. 

Well! 
How  can  I  help  it  ?    Quick,  then— what's  your  wish  ? 

NATHAN. 

Patience  !  nor  pass  with  such  contempt  and  pride 
One  who  must  be  your  debtor  evermore. 

TEMPLAR. 

How  so  ?    I  almost  guess.    No  ;  are  you  then 

NATHAN. 

My  name  is  Nathan,  father  to  the  maid 

Your  generous  courage  rescued  from  the  flames. 

I  come  to 


64  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC   WORKS.      [ACT  IL 

TEMPLAR. 

If  you  come  to  render  thanks, 
Spare  them.     I  have  already  been  compelled 
To  bear  too  many  thanks  for  this  small  act. 
I »« -sides,  you  owe  me  nothing.     Could  I  know 
The  maiden  was  your  daughter  '.'     1  was  l>ound — 
It  is  ;i  Templar's  duty — to  assist 
All  who  need  SUOOOr;  and  my  life  just  then 
Was  a  mere  burden.     It  was  a  relief 
To  risk  it  for  another.  e\  > -n  t  liou.irh 
The  task  were  to  preserve  a  Jewess'  life. 

NATHAN. 

Great— great,  yet  horrible — I  understand 

The  turn.     The  modest  greatness  will  assume 

The  hideous  mask  to  ward  otf  -rat  it  u<le. 

But  though  he  may  disdain  our  pmnVr'd  thanks, 

Is  t  here  no  other  tribute  we  ran  j 

Sir  Knight  I  if  you  were  not  a  stranger  here, 

And  nnt  a  pri<  IUT,  I  were  not  so  bold. 

But,  come,  what  service  can  I  render  you  ? 

TEMPLAR. 

You  !— nothing. 

NATH\N. 

I  am  rich. 

TEMPLAR. 

The  richer  Jew 
Was  ne'er  in  my  esteem  the  better  Jew. 

NATHAN. 

Is  that  a  reason  why  you  should  not  use 
The  better  part  of  him — his  wealth  ? 

TEMPLAR. 

Well,  well, 

I'll  not  refuse  it  wholly,  for  the  sake 
Of  my  poor  mantle  :  when  it  is  well  worn. 
And  spite  of  darning  will  not  hold  together, 
I'll  come  and  borrow  cloth  or  gold  of  you, 


SCENE  V.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  65 

To  make  a  new  one.     Nay,  Sir,  do  not  start ; 

The  danger  is  not  pressing — 'tis  not  yet 

Quite  worthless  ;  it  is  sound,  and  strong,  and  good. 

Save  in  one  corner,  where  an  ugly  spot 

Is  singed,  and  that  is  from  a  burn  it  got 

When  I  bore  off  your  daughter  from  the  fire. 

NATHAN  (takhiy  lurid  of  the  mantle). 
Tis  strange,  indeed,  that  such  a  spot  as  this 
Should  bear  far  better  witness  to  the  man 
Than  his  own  lips.     This  spot !     Oh,  I  could  kiss  it. 
Your  pardon,  Sir,  in  truth,  I  meant  it  not ! 

TEMPLAR. 

What? 

NATHAN. 

Twas  a  tear  that  fell. 

TEMPLAR. 

Well,  'tis  no  matter. 
'Tis  not  the  first.     (This  Jew  doth  puzzle  me.) 

NATHAN. 

Would  you  but  send  this  mantle  to  my  daughter  ! 

TEMPLAR. 

Why? 

NATHAN. 

That  she,  too,  may  press  it  to  her  lips  ; 
For  at  her  benefactor's  feet  to  fall 
She  now  may  hope  in  vain. 

TEMPLAR. 

But,  Jew,  your  name? 

Tis  Nathan,  is  it  not  ?    You  choose  your  words 
With  skill — I  am  confused.     I  did  not  think 


Feign,  Templar,  and  dissemble  as  you  may, 
I  see  the  truth.  I  see  your  generous  heart, 
Too  honest  and  too  good  to  be  polite. 

5 


66  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.      [ACT  IL 

A  grateful  girl,  all  feeling,  and  her  maid 

Swift  to  obey — a  father  far  from  home, 

You  valued  her  fair  fame,  and  would  not  see  her. 

You  scorned  to  tempt  lest  you  should  victor  prove. 

For  this  too  I  must  tender  you  my  thanks. 

TEKPLAR. 

You  know  at  least  how  Templars  tmt/Jit  to  feel. 

NATHAN, 

Why  Templars  <mly  ?  ami  \\-\\\  *»///////  to  feel? 

Is  it  because  \  our  rules  and  \  <>\\  >  »-n  join 
These  duties  to //OH r  o/v/rr  ?     Sir.  I  know 
Ho\v  tfood  men  all  should  feel,  and    know  as  well 
That  every  country  can  produce  good  men. 

PL  \i:. 
You'll  make  distinctions  ? 

NATHAN. 

Yes,  in  color,  form, 
And  dress,  perhaps. 

TEMPI.  \  K. 

Ay,  and  in  number  too — 
Here  more — there  1«^. 

N  \THAN. 

The  difference  is  not  much. 
Great  men,  like  t  rees,  ha\  ••  ever  need  of  room  ; 
Too  many  let  tOffethei  <>nly  serve 
T. »  i-rusli  each  oi  tier's  ln.ii.ulis.      Tlic  middling  sort, 
l.ik«-  08,  an  lound  in  numlM-rs,  tln»y  abound; 
Only  let  not  one  soar  and   bruise  the  other, 
Let  not  the  piarl  ln-;inp:ry  with  the  stump, 
Let  not  the  upper  branch  alone  pretend 
Not  to  have  started  from  the  common  earth. 

TKMPLAR. 

Well  said.     And  yet  what  nation  was  the  first 
To  scatter  discord  'mongst  their  fellow-men? 


SCENK  V.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  67 

To  claim  the  title  of  "  the  chosen  people?  " 
How  now  if  I  were  not  to  hate  them,  but 
To  scorn  this  upstart  nation,  for  their  pride? 
That  pride  which  it  bequeathed  to  Mussulman 
And  Christian,  as  if  God  were  theirs  alone. 
You  start  to  hear  a  Christian  and  a  Templar 
Talk  thus.     But  when  and  where  lias  all  this  rage, 
This  pious  rage,  to  win  the  better  God, 
And  force  this  better  (iod  <>n  all  the  world, 
Shown  itself  more,  or  in  a  blacker  form. 
Than  here,  and  now  ?     Who  here,  who  now  retains 
The  blinding  scales  upon   his  eyes— and  yet 
Let  him  be  blind  who  will ! — forget  my  words, 
And  leave  me  (isyohuj). 

NATHAN. 

Templar  !  you  but  little  know 
How  closer  henceforth  I  shall  cling  to  you. 
We  must,  we  must  be  friends.     Despise  iny  people — 
We  did  not  choose  a  nation  for  ourse! 
Are  we  our  nation's?     What  then  is  a  nation? 
Were  Jews  or  Christians  such,  ere  they  were  men? 
Ah!  would  that  I  had  found  in  you  OIK-  man 
To  whom  it  were  enough  to  be  a  man. 

TEMPLAR. 

Thou  hast  so,  Nathan  !    Yes,  by  Heaven,  thou  hast. 
Thy  hand.     I  blush  to  have  mistaken  thee. 

NATHAN. 

Now  I  feel  proud.     'Tis  only  common  souls 
In  whom  we  seldom  err. 

TEMPLAR. 

Uncommon  ones 

We  do  not  oft  forget.'    Nathan,  we  must, 
We  must  be  friends. 

NATHAN. 

We  are  so.     And  my  Recha 

Will  now  rejoice.     How  bright  the  prospect  grows 
That  dawns  upon  me  !     If  you  did  but  know  her. 


68  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.      [Acr  IL 

TEMPLAR. 

I  grow  impatient,  Nathan.     But  who  now 

Comes  from  your  house  ?    Methinks  it  is  your  Daja. 

NATHAN. 

Yes,  and  her  look  how  full  of  care  !    God  grant 

TEMPLAR. 

That  nothing  may  have  chanced  to  our  Recha  ! 

SCENE  VI. 
i -\. i  A     / 1 (thing  in). 

DAJA. 

Nathan,  dear  Nathan  ! 

NATHAN. 

Well. 

DAJA. 

Forgive  me,  Knight, 
That  I  must  interrupt  you. 

NATHAN. 

What  has  happened? 

DAJA. 

The  Sultan  sends  for  you— commands  you  straight 
To  speak  with  him.    Protect  us,  Heaven  !  the  Sultan  I 

NATHAN. 

The  Sultan  sends  for  me  !     He  would  inspect 

The  goods—the  precious  wares  that  I  have  brought 

From  Persia.     Say  there's  nothing  yet  unpacked. 

DAJA. 

No,  no  ;  'tis  not  to  look  at  anything  ; 
He  wants  to  speak  to  you  in  person,  Nathan, 
And  orders  you  to  come  at  once. 


SCENE  VII.]          NATHAN  THE  WISE.  69 

NATHAN. 

I  go. 
Daja,  return. 

DAJA. 

Knight,  take  it  not  amiss. 
We  were  alarmed  for  what  the  Sultan  might 
Require  of  Nathan. 

NATHAN. 

That  I  soon  shall  know.     (Exit  Daja.) 

SCENE  VII. 

NATHAN,  the  TEMPLAR. 
Are  you  then  not  acquainted  with  him  yet  ? 

NATHAN. 

"Who,  Saladin  ?    Not  yet.     I've  neither  shunned 
Nor  sought  to  see  him.     And  the  public  voice 
Proclaims  his  f aine  so  loud,  that  I  could  wish 
Rather  to  take  its  language  upon  trust, 
Than  sift  the  truth.     And  yet  if  it  be  true 
That  he  has  spared  your  life — 

TEMPLAR. 

Yes,  so  it  is. 
The  life  I  live,  he  gave. 

NATHAN. 

Then  he  bestows 

A  double,  treble  life  on  me.     And  thus 
He  flings  a  bond  around  me,  which  secures 
My  duty  to  his  service  ;  and  henceforth 
I  burn  to  know  his  wishes.     Now,  for  all 
I  am  prepared  ;  and  further,  will  confess 
'Tis  for  your  sake  alone  that  I  am  thus. 

TEMPLAR. 

Often  I've  sought  to  meet  him,  but  as  yet 
Have  found  no  means  to  render  him  my  thanks* 


;o  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.     [ ACT  II. 

The  impress  which  his  mind  received  of  me 
Was  transient,  and  ere  now  has  disappeared. 
Who  knows  if  he  may  still  remember  me  ? 
And  yet  once  more  at  least  h«-  must  recall 
Me  to  his  thoughts — to  fix  my  future  lot ! 
Tis  not  enough  that  by  his  gracious  will 
I  still  have  of  life  ;  I've  yet  to  learn 
According  to  whose  will  I  have  to  live. 

NATHAN. 

Therefore  'twere  well  I  did  not  tarry  now. 
Perchance  some  happy  w<>nl  may  give  excuse 
To  speak  of  you.     Now,  pardon  m«-.  fan- \v«'ll ! 
I  must  away.     When  shall  w«»  meet  again  ? 

TEMPLAR. 

Whenever  'tis  permitted. 

NATHAN. 

When  you  will. 

TEMPLAR. 

To-day,  then. 

NATHAN. 

And  your  name? 

TEMIM.AK. 

My  name  was— is — 
Conrad  of  Stauffen. 

NATHAN. 

Conrad  of  Stauffen  !  Stauffen  I 

TEMPLAR. 

What  is  there  in  my  name  to  wonder  at  ? 

NATHAN. 

There  are  more  races  of  that  name,  no  doubt. 

TEMPLAR. 

Yes,  many  of  the  name  were  here — rot  here, 
My  uncle*  even — I  should  say  my  father. 
But  wherefore  is  your  eye  so  fixed  on  me  ? 


SCENE  VIIIJ        NATHAN  THK  WISE.  71 

NATHAN. 

I  know  not  ;  but  I  love  to  look  on  you. 

TEMPLAR. 

Therefore  I  take  my  leave.     The  searching  eye 

Will  oft  discover  more  than  it  desires. 

I  fear  it,  Nathan  ;  so,  farewell.     Let  time, 

Not  curious  prying,  make  us  better  known.          (Exit.) 

NATHAN  (looking  after  him  with  astonishment). 
"The  searching  eye  will  oft  discover  more 
Than  it  desires."  "As  if  he  ivad  my  soul  ! 
That,  too,  may  chance  to  be.     Tis  not  alone 
His  walk,  his  stature,  but  his  very  voice! 
Leonard  so  bore  himself — was  even  wont 
To  carry  thus  his  sword  upon  his  arm, 
And  thus  to  shade  his  «-y«  -brow  with  his  hand, 
As  if  to  hide  the  fire  that  fill'd  his  look. 
So  deeply  graven  images  may  seem 
At  times  to  lie  asleep  within  the  soul, 
When  all  at  once  a  single  word — a  tone — 
( 'alls  them  to  life  again.     Of  StaufT en— right — 
Filnek  and  StaufYen — I  will  soon  know  more. 
But  first  to  Saladin.     Ha  !  Daja  here- - 
And  on  the  watch  !     Come  nearer,  Daja,  come. 


SCENE  VIII. 
DAJA,  NATHAN. 

NATHAN. 

Well,  both  of  you  have  something  more  at  heart 
Than  to  know  what  the  Sultan  wants  with  me. 

DAJA. 

And  you  can  hardly  blame  her  for  it,  sir. 
You  were  beginning  to  converse  with  him 
More  trustingly  yourself,  when  suddenly 
The  Sultan's  message  drove  us  from  the  window. 


72  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.      [An  II 

NATHAN. 

Go  tell  her,  Daja,  she  may  soon  expect 
A  visit  from  the  Templar. 

DAJA. 

What!  indeed! 

NATHAN. 

I  think  I  may  rely  upon  you.  Daja. 
Be  on  your  guard,  I  beg,  you'll  not  repent  it. 
Your  conscience  shall  at  length  be  satisfied, 
But  do  not  mar  my  plans,     hujuiiv,  explain, 
But  with  reserve,  with  titling  modesty. 

DAJA. 

No  need  for  such  advice.     I  go,  I 

And  you  must  follow;  I'm-.  >•  •«•.  Mali  comes — 

Th»-  Sultan  sends  a  second  messenger. 

SCENE  IX. 

NATHAN.    .\L-II\rr. 

\I.   II  A!  I. 

Ha  I  are  you  there  ?    I  have  been  seeking  you. 

NATHAN. 

Why  in  such  haste?    What  can  he  want  with  me? 

Al.-HAFI. 

Who? 

NATHAN. 

Saladin.     But  I  am  coming  quickly. 

AL-HAFI. 

To  whom  ?    To  Saladin  ? 

NATHAN. 

Has  he  not  sent  you? 

AL-HAFI. 

Me?  no— but  has  he  sent  already? 


SCENE  IX.]  NATHAN  THli  WISE.  73 

NATHAN. 

Yes. 

AL-HAFI. 

Then  it  is  so. 

NATHAN. 

What's  so  ? 

AL-HAFl. 

That I'm  not  guilty, 

God  knows,  I'm  not  to  blame  ;  'tis  not  my  fault. 
I've  done  my  best — belied,  and  slandered  you — 
To  save  you  from  it. 

NATHAN. 

Save  me  ?  and  from  what  ? 
Be  plain. 

ALrHAFI. 

From  being  made  his  Defterdar. 
I  pity  you — I  cannot  stay  to  see  it. 
I  ny  this  hour — you  know  the  road  I  take. 
Speak,  then,  if  I  can  serve  you  ;  but  your  wants 
Must  suit  a  wretch  that's  wholly  destitute. 
Quick,  what's  your  pleasure  ? 

NATHAN. 

Recollect  yourself — 

Your  words  are  mystery.     I  know  of  nothing. 
What  do  you  mean  ? 

ALrHAFI. 

You'll  take  your  money-bags  ? 

NATHAN. 

My  money-bags  ! 

AL-HAFI. 

Ay,  bring  your  treasures  forth — 
The  treasures  you  must  shower  on  Saladin. 

NATHAN. 

And  is  that  all  ? 

4 


74  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.      [ACT  II. 

AL-HAFI. 

Ah  !  shall  I  witness  it, 

How,  day  by  day,  he'll  scoop  and  pare  you  down, 
Till  nothing  but  a  hollow,  empty  shell, 
A  husk  as  light  as  film,  is  left  behind. 
Nathan,  yoirve  yet  to  learn  how  spendthrift  waste 
From  prudent  bounty's  never  empty  stores 
Borrows  and  borrows,  till  there's  not  a  crumb 
Left  to  keep  rats  from  starving.     Do  not  think 
That  In-  who  wants  your  ^old  will  heed  advice. 
When  has  the  Sultan  listened  to  advice? 
Hear  what  befel  me  with  him. 

NATHAN. 

Well— go  on. 

AI.-HAFI. 

He  played  lust  now  at  chess  with  Sittah.     She 
Is  a  keen  player.     I  drew  near  and  watched. 
The  game  which  Saladin  supposed  wa^  1 
Stood  yet  upon  tin-  hoard.      He  had  ^iven  in. 
1  marked,  and  cried,  "  The  game's  not  lost  at  all." 

NATHAN. 

Oh  !  what  a  grand  discovery  for  you. 

!  Ml. 

He  needed  only  to  remove  his  kin^ 

Behind  the  castle — and  the  check  was  saved. 

Could  I  but  show  you 

NATHAN. 

I  believe  it  all  ! 

AI.-HAFI. 

Then  with  the  castle  free,  he  must  have  won. 
I  saw  it,  and  I  called  him  to  the  board. 
What  do  you  think  he  did  ? 

NATHAN. 

He  doubted  you. 


SCENE  IX.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  75 

AL-HAFI. 

Not  only  that — he  would  not  hear  a  word — 
And  with  contempt  he  overthrew  the  board. 

NATHAN. 

Indeed ! 

AL-HAFI. 

He  said  he  chose  it — would  be  mate. 
Is  that  to  play  the  game? 

NATHAN. 

Most  surely  not. 
'Twas  rather  playing  with  the  game. 

AL-HAFI. 

And  yet 
The  stakes  were  high. 

NATHAN 

A  trifle  to  the  Sultan  I 
Money  is  nought  to  him.     It  is  not  that 
Which  galls,  but  not  to  hear  Al-Hafi  out — 
Not  to  admire  his  comprehensive  glance, 
His  eagle  eye — 'tis  that  demands  revenge. 
Say,  am  I  right? 

AL-HAFI. 

I  only  tell  this  tale 

That  you  may  know  how  much  his  head  is  worth* 
But  I  am  weary  of  him.     All  the  day 
I  am  running  round  to  every  wretched  Moor 
To  borrow  money  for  him — I  who  ne'er 
Ask  for  myself,  am  now  obliged  to  sue 
For  others — arid,  according  to  my  creed, 
To  borrow  is  to  beg,  as,  when  you  lend 
Your  money  upon  usury,  you  steal. 
Among  my  Ghebers  on  the  Ganges'  shores 
I  shall  need  neither  ;  there  I  shall  not  be 
The  tool  or  pimp  of  any  ;  there  alone 
Upon  the  Ganges  honest  men  are  found. 
You,  Nathan,  you  alone  of  all  I  see 
Are  worthy  on  the  Ganges'  banks  to  live. 


76  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.      [Act  II. 

Then  come  with  me ;  leave  him  the  wretched  gold 

That  he  would  strip  you  of — 'tis  all  he  wants. 

Little  by  little  he  will  ruin  you  ; 

Tis  better  to  be  quit  of  all  at  once  ; 

Conic,  then,  and  I'll  provide  you  with  a  staff. 

NATHAN. 

Nay,  that  resource  will  still  remain  for  us 
As  a  last  refuge.     But  I'll  think  of  it. 

Al.-HAFI. 

Nay,  ponder  not  upon  a  tiling  like  this. 

NATHAN. 

Then  stay  till  1  have  seen  the  Sultan.     Stay 
Till  I  have  bid  farewell. 

AL-HAll. 

The  man  who  stays 

To  hunt  for  motives,  to  search  reason*  «mt. 
Who  cannot  Iml.lly  an«l   at  <mr«'  resolve 
To  live  a  free  man's  life.  muM  In-  the  .slave 
Of  others  till  his  death.     ]• 
Farewell!    my  path  is  heiv.  ami  y'< >urs  is  th.-re! 

NA'l 

Hut  .stay.  Al-Hali  !  till  you  have  arranged 
The  state  accounts. 

AL-HAl  I. 

Pah!  Nathan,  there's  no  need; 
The  balance  in  the  chest  is  quickly  told, 
And  mv  account,  Sittah,  or  you,  will  vouch. 
Farewell!  (Kcit.) 

NATHAN    (lool'iinj  tifffi'hi',- 
Yes,  I  will  vouch  it.  honest,  wild — 
How  shall  1  call  him?     Ah  !  the  real  beggar 
Is,  after  all,  the  only  real  king.     (Exit  at  opposite  side*) 


SCENE  I.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  77 

ACT  III. 

SCENE  I.— A  room  in  NATHAN'S  house. 
RECHA,  DAJA, 

RECHA. 

Well,  Daja,  did  my  father  really  say 

11  That  I  might  instantly  expect  him  here?" 

That  surely  meant  that  lie  would  come  at  once, 

And  yet  ho\v  many  minutes  have  rolled  by! 

Hut  I'll  not  dwell  upon  the  moments  gone, 

I'll  only  live  in  those  that  are  to  come, 

That  one  which  brings  him  here  must  come  in  time. 

DAJA. 

But  for  the  Sultan's  ill-timed  mossengei 
Nathan  had  brought  him  hither. 

RECHA. 

When  he  comes — 

Oli !  when  this  dearest  of  my  inmost  hopes 
Shall  be  fulfilled— what  then— what  then  ? 

DAJA. 

What  then  ? 

Why  then  I  trust  the  wish  most  dear  to  me 
Will  also  be  fulfilled. 

RECHA. 

And  in  its  place 

What  wish  shall  take  possession  of  my  breast  ? 
Which  now  forgets  to  heave,  unless  it  pant 
With  some  fond  wish  ?  Will  nothing  come  ?  I  shudder  ! 

DAJA. 

My  wish  shall  then  supplant  the  one  fulfilled, 
My  wish  to  see  you  borne  to  Europe's  shores 
By  hands  well  worthy  of  you. 


78  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.    [Acr  III. 

RECHA. 

You  do  err. 

The  very  thought  which  makes  you  form  this  wish 
Forbids  it  to  be  mine.     Your  native  land 
Att  racts  you,  and  has  mine  no  charm  for  me  ? 
Shall  a  remembrance  of  your  cherished  home. 
Your  absent  kindred  and  your  dearest  friends, 
Which  years  and  distance  have  not  yet  effaced, 
Rule  in  your  soul  with  softer,  mightier  s- 
Than  what  I  know,  and  hear,  and  i,-»-l  of  mfiie. 

DAJA. 

Tis  vain  to  struggle,  for  the  ways  of  Heaven 
Are  still  the  wavs  of  Heaven.     And  who  can  say 
If  he  who  saved  vou r  life  may  not  be  doomed. 
Through  hi>  Cod's  arm,  for  whom  lie  nobly  tights. 
To  lead  vou  to  that  people— to  that  land 
To  which  you  should  belong  by  right  of  birth  ? 

RECHA. 

What  are  you  saying,  Daja  ?  dearest  Daja  ! 

Indeed  you  have  some  strange  and  curious  thought--. 
" ///.s- dod  !  "  whose  God?    To  whom  can   God  belong, 
And  how  can  God  belong  to  any  man. 

ed  a  human  arm  to  light  his  battles? 
And  who.  among  the  scattered  clods  of  earth 
Can  say  for  which  of  them  himself  was  horn. 
Unless  for  that  on  whieh  he  was  pr«  • 
If  Nathan  heard  tliee  !     Ho\\-  has  Nathan  sinned, 
That  Daja  seeks  to  paint   my  happh;< 
So  far  removed  from  hi>?     What  has  he  done. 
That  thus  amon-st  the  seeds  of  ivas««n.  which 
He  sowed  unmixed  and  pure  within  my  soul, 
The  hand  of  Daja  must  for  ever  seek 
To  plant  the  w»  ds,  or  flowen  "f  her  own  land? 
He  nas  no  wish  to  see  upon  this  soil 
Such  rank  luxuriant   l.l->^,>ms.     I  myself 
Must  own  I  faint  beneath  the  sour-sick  odor; 
Your  head  is  stronger  and  is  used  to  it. 
I  find  no  fault  with  tho>.-  of  stronger  nerves 


SCENE  II.]  NATHAN  THE  WIS£.  79 

Who  can  support  it — mine,  alas  !  give  way. 
Your  angel  too,  how  near  befool'd  was  I 
Through  him  ;  I  blush  whene'er  I  see  my  father. 

DAJA. 

As  if,  dear  Recha,  you  alone  were  wise. 
Folly  !     If  I  might  speak 

RECHA. 

And  may  you  not? 

Have  I  not  listened  gladly  to  your  tales 
About  the  valiant  heroes  of  your  faith  ? 
Have  I  not  freely  on  their  deeds  bestowed 
My  admiration— to  their  sufferings  given 
The  tribute  of  my  tears  ?    Their  faith,  'tis  true, 
Ha>  never  -'-emed  to  me  their  noblest  boast, 
But,  therefore,  Daja,  I  have  only  learnt 
To  find  more  consolation  in  the  thought 
That  our  devotion  to  the  God  of  all 
I)epend<  not  on  our  notions  of  that  God. 
My  father  has  so  often  taught  me  this— 
You  have  M>  often  to  this  point  agreed, 
Ho\v  can  it  l>e  that  you  wish  now  alone 
To  undermine  what  you  have  built  together? 
But  this  is  no  discourse  \\  itli  which  to  wait 
The  friend  whom  we  expect — and  yet  for  me 

Tis  of  some  moment  whether  he But  hark  ! 

Hark  !    Some  one  comes  this  way. If  it  were  he  I 

SCENE  II. 
THE  TEMPLAR,  DAJA,  RECHA. 

(A  servant  ushers  in  the  TEMPLAR.) 
This  way,  Sir  Knight  !— 

(RECHA  starts,  composes  herself,  and  is  about  to  fatt  at 
his  feet. ) 
Tis  he  !  my  rescuer.     Ah ! 

TEMPLAR. 

Twas  only  to  avoid  this  scene  that  I 
So  long  postponed  my  visit. 


8o  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.     [Acr  IIL 

RECHA. 

At  tlie  feet 

Of  this  proud  man,  I  will  thank  God  alone, 
And  not  the  man.     He  does  not  want  my  thanks — 
As  little  as  the  bucket  does  which  proved 
Itself  so  useful  at  the  fire,  and  let 
Its.-lf  be  filled  and  emptied  ;  so  this  man, 
He  too  was  thruM  l.y  rhance  amid  the  flames  ; 
1  dropped  by  chance  into  his  open  an 
I'y  chance  remained  there,  like  a  fluttering  spark 
Upon  his  mantle  -till— I  know  n<»t  what 
Kxpelled  us  from  th«>  flames.      What  room  is  here 
For  thanks? — In  Kurnpe  wine  excites  the  men 

•  •ater deeds — The  Templar  knows  his  duty, 
Performs  hi-,  task,  U  well-trained  spaniels  do. 
Who  fetch  alike  from  water  and   from  tlai 

TEMPLAH  (wJio  has  been  surveying  her  with  surprise  and 

•  xs.) 

ODaja,  Daia!  if  in  hasty  hours 
Of  care  and  grief,  this  unchecked  tongue  of  mine 

Betrayed  me  into  rudeness,  why  convey 

To  her  each  idle  word  that  leaves  my  h|>- '; 

This  is  indeed   to,»^allin^a  revenge! 

Yet,  if  henceforth,  you  will  interpret  better 

DAJA. 

I  question  if  these  little  stings.  Sir  Kni-ht. 
Were  so  shot  forth  as  to  have  done  you  wrong. 

RECHA. 

How  !  you  had  cares,  and  were  more  covetous 
Of  them  than  of  your  life. 

TF.Ml'LAR. 

Thou  best  of  beings, 

How  is  my  soul  with  eye  and  ear  at  strife? 
No,  'twas  not  she  I  rescued  from  the  fire, 
For  who  could  know  her  and  forbear  the  deed? 

In  truth,  disguised  by  terror 

(Se  gazi't*  ,,n  ],<  r  </x  //' 


SCENE  II.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  8l 

RECHA. 

But  to  me 
You  still  appear  the  same  as  then  you  seemed. 

(A pause,  till  she  resinm-*  in  on/,/-  /<>  interrupt  his 

Tell  me,  Sir  Knight,  where  have  you  been  so  long? 
And — I  might  almost  ask — where  are  you  now  ? 

TEMPLAH. 

I  am  where  I,  perhaps,  ought  not  to  be. 

RECHA. 

And  been,  perhaps,  where  you  should  not  have  been. 
That  is  not  well. 

TKMI'LAR. 

I  have  been  up  the  mountain — 
What  is  the  name? — ay  !  Sinai  ! 

RECHA. 

I  am  glad  ; 
For,  doubtless,  you  can  tell  me  if  'tis  true 

TEMPLAR, 

If  what  is  true?    If  holy  people  show 

The  spot  where  Moses  stood  before  his  God  ? 

RECHA. 

Oh  no  ;  not  that.     Wherever  Moses  stood 

It  was  before  his  God.     I  know  enough 

About  such  things  already.     Is  it  true— 

I  wish  to  learn  from  you  who  have  been  there — 

If  it  is  not  by  far  less  difficult 

To  climb  than  to  descend  the  holy  mount  ? 

For  with  all  other  mountains  that  I  know, 

Tis  quite  the  contrary.     You  turn  away  ! 

Why  do  you  turn,  Sir  Knight?    Nay,  look  at  me. 

TEMPLAR. 

I  wish  to  hear  you  rather. 
4* 


82  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.    [Acr  IIL 

RECHA. 

T  perceive, 

Because  you  do  not  wish  that  I  should  see 
You  smile  at  my  simplicity.     You  smile 
That  I  have  not  some  more  important  thing 
To  ask  about  the  holy  hill  of  hills. 
Is  it  so  ? 

TEMPLAR. 

MUM  1  meet  those  eyes  again? 

And  now  you  cast  them  down,  and  check  your  smile. 
How  can  Tin  tho*««  chanceful  features  read 
What  I  so  plainly  hear — the  truth  your  words 
SoaudiMy  deoUre,  and  yet  would  hide? 
How  truly  did  your  father  say  to  me, 
44  If  you  but  knew  her  !  " 

REC'IIA. 

Who  said  that  to  you  ? 

TEMPLAR. 

Your  father,  and  of  you  he  spoke  the  word. 

DAJA. 
Have  I  not  said  it  to  you  many  times? 

TEMPI.  \ It. 

"\Vln-iv  is  your  father  now  ?  with  Saladiii? 
RECHA. 

Doubtless  he  is. 

TEMPLAR. 

Still  there!    Oh,  I  forget. 
He  cannot  still  In-  there.     He  waits  for  me, 
As  he  appointed,  near  the  cloister  gate. 
Forgive  me,  I  must  go  in  quest  of  him. 

DAJA. 
1  will  do  that.    Wait  here,  I'll  bring  him  straight. 

TEMPLAR. 

O  no,  O  no  I    He  is  expecting  me. 


SCENE  III.]           NATHAN  TIl£  WISE.  83 

Besides,  you  cannot  tell  what  may  have  chanced. 

Tis  not  unlikely  he  may  be  engaged 

With  Saladin — you  do  not  know  the  Sultan — 

In  some  unpleasant Danger  may  ensue 

If  I  delay. 

RECHA. 

Danger  !  for  whom  ?  for  what? 

TEMPLAR. 

Danger  for  me — for  you — for  him !  unless 

I  go  at  once.  (Exit.) 

SCENE  III. 
RECHA,  DA.JA. 

RECHA. 

What  is  the  matter,  Daja  ? 
So  quick  !  what  ails  him — makes  him  fly  from  hence? 

DAJA. 

Let  him  alone.     I  think  it  no  bad  sign. 

RECHA. 
Sign  !  and  of  what  ? 

DAJA. 

That  something  vexes  him. 
It  boils,  but  it  must  not  boil  over.     Go, 
Tis  your  turn  now. 

RECHA. 

My  turn.    You  have  become 
Incomprehensible  to  me— like  him. 

DAJA. 

Now  you  may  pay  him  back  with  interest 
All  the  unrest  he  once  occasioned  you. 
But  be  not  too  vindictive — too  severe. 

RECHA. 
Well,  Daja,  you  must  know  your  meaning  best. 


84  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.    [Acr  IIL 

DAJA. 

And  are  you  then  already  calm  once  more  ? 

RECHA. 
In  truth  I  am. 

DAJA. 

Confess  at  least,  dear  Recha, 

That  all  this  restlessness  has  brought  you  pleasure, 
And  that  you  have  to  thank  his  want  of  ease 
K"i  all  the  ease  that  you  yourself  enjoy. 

RECHA. 

I  know  not  that,  but  I  must  still  confess 
That  to  myself  it  seems  a  mystery 

How  in  this  bosom,  such  a  pleasing  calm 

( 'an  sullenly  succeed  so  rude  a  storm. 

Hi-  countenance,  his  speech,  his  manner  have 

DAJA. 

By  this  time  satisfied  you. 

RECHA. 

No,  not  that. 

DAJA. 

Well,  satisfied  your  more  impatient  want. 

RECHA. 
Well,  well,  if  you  must  have  it  SO. 

DAJA. 

Not  I! 

RECHA. 

To  me  he  must  be  ever  dear.     To  me 

He  must  remain  more  dear  than  life,  although 

My  pulse  no  longer  flutters  at  his  name. 

My  heart  no  longer,  when  I  think  of  him, 

Beats  with  a  fuller  throb.     What  have  I  said? 

Come,  Daja,  to  the  window  once  again 

Which  overlooks  the  palms. 


SCENE  IV.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  85 

DAJA. 

I  see  'tis  not 
Yet  satisfied,  that  more  impatient  want. 

RECHA. 

Now,  I  shall  see  the  palm-trees  once  again  ; 
Not  him  alone  amidst  them. 

DAJA. 

Such  a  fit 
Of  coldness  speaks  of  fevers  yet  to  come. 

RECHA. 

Nay,  I'm  not  cold,  in  truth  I  do  not  see 
Less  gladly  that  which  I  do  calmly  see. 

SCENE  IV. 
(The  Hall  of  Audience  in  SALADIN'S  Palace.) 

SALADIN,  SITTAH. 
SALADIN  ((firing  directions). 
Bring  the  Jew  here,  as  soon  as  he  arrives. 
He  seems  in  no  great  haste. 

SITTAH. 

Nay,  Salad  in, 
Perhaps  he  was  not  found  at  home. 

SALADIN. 

Ah,  sister ! 

SITTAH. 

You  look  as  if  some  contest  were  at  hand. 

SALADIN. 

Ay  !  and  with  weapons  I'm  not  used  to  wield. 
Must  I  then  play  the  hypocrite — and  frame 
Precautions — lay  a  snare  ?    Where  learnt  I  that  ? 
And  for  what  end  ?    To  seek  for  money— money ! 
For  money  from  a  Jew  ?    And  to  such  arts 


86  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC   WORKS.     [ACT  IIL 

Must  Saladin  descend,  that  he  may  win 
The  most  contemptible  of  paltry  things  ? 

SITTAH. 

But  paltry  things,  despised  too  much,  are  sure 
To  find  some  method  of  revn 

SALADIN. 

Tis  true ! 

What,  if  this  Jew  sin  mid  prove  an  upright  man, 
Such  as  the  Dervise  painted  him  ? 

-UTAH. 

Why.  then, 

Your  difficulty  ceases  ;  for  a  snare 
Implies  an  avaricious,  cheating  Jew, 

And  not  an  upright   man.     Then  he  is  ours 
Without  a  snare.     Twill  ^ive  us  joy  to  hear 
H«»\v  such  a  man  will  sj>euk — with  what  stern  strength 
He'll  tear  the  net,  or  with  what  cunning  skill 
Untangle  all  its  meshes,  one  by  one. 

SALADIN. 

True,  Sittali  !  'twill  afford  me  rare  delight, 

SITTAH. 

What .  t hen,  need  trouble  you ?    For  if  he  be, 
Lik.  all  his  nation,  a  mere  cozening  Jew, 
You  need  not  blush,  if  you  appear  to  him 
No  better  than  he  deems  all  other  men. 
But  if  to  him  you  wear  a  different  look, 
You'll  be  a  fool — his  dupe  ! 

SALADIN. 

So  I  must,  then, 
Do  ill,  lest  bad  men  should  think  ill  of  me. 

SITTAH. 

Yes,  brother,  if  you  call  it  doing  ill 
To  put  a  thing  to  its  intended  use. 


SCENE  IV.J  NATHAN  THK  \\ISK.  87 

SALADIN. 

Well,  there  is  nothing  woman's  wit  invents 
It  cannot  palliate — 

SITTAH. 
How,  palliate? 

SALADIN. 

Sittah,  I  fear  such  fine-wrought  filagree 
AY  ill  break  in  my  rude  hand.     It  is  for  those 
\Vho  frame  such  plots  to  bring  them  into  play. 
The  execution  needs  the  inventor's  skill. 
But  let  it  pass. — I'll  dance  as  best  I  can— 
Yet  sooner  would  I  do  it  ill  than  well. 

SITTAH. 

Oh,  brother,  have  more  courage  in  yourself  ! 
Have  but  the  will,  I'll  answer  for  the  rest. 
How  strange  that  men  like  you  are  ever  prone 
To  tl link  it  is  their  swords  alone  that  raise  them* 
When  with  the  fox  the  noble  lion  hunts, 
Tis  of  the  fellowship  he  feels  ashamed, 
But  of  the  cunning,  never. 

SALADIN. 

Well,  'tis  strange 

That  women  so  delight  to  bring  mankind 
Down  to  their  level.     But,  dear  Sittah,  go ; 
I  think  I  know  my  lesson. 

SITTAH. 
Must  I  go? 

SALADIN. 

You  did  not  mean  to  stay  ? 

SITTAH. 

No,  not  with  yon, 
But  in  this  neighb'ring  chamber. 


88  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.    [Acr  III. 

SALADIN. 

What !  to  listen  ? 

Not  so,  my  sister,  if  I  shall  succeed. 
Away !  the  curtain  rustles — he  is  come. 
Beware  of  lingering  !     I'll  be  on  the  watch. 
( 1 17* He  SITTAH  retina  tlirnn</li  am  door,  NATHAN  enters 
at  another,  and  SALADIN  seats  himself.) 

s,  KM:  V. 
SALADIN,  NATHAN. 

B  \  I.  A  DIN. 

Draw  nearer,  Jew — yet  nearer — close  to  me ! 
Lay  fear  aside. 

\  \TII  \\. 

Fear,  Sultan,  's  for  your  foes. 

SALADIN. 

Your  name  is  Nathan  ? 

NATHAN. 

Yes. 

SALADIN. 

Nathan  the  Wise. 

N  \T1I  \.\. 

No. 

SALADIN. 

But,  at  least  the  people  call  you  so. 

NATHAN. 

That  may  be  true.     The  people  ! 

SALADIN. 

Do  not  think 

I  treat  the  people's  voice  contemptuously. 
I  have  been  wishing  long  to  know  the  man 
Whom  it  has  called  the  Wise. 


SCENE  V.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  89 

NATHAN. 

What,  if  it  named 

Him  so  in  scorn  ?    If  wise  means  prudent  only — 
And  prudent,  one  who  knows  his  interest  well  ? 

SALAD1N. 

Who  knows  his  real  interest,  you  mean. 

NATHAN. 

Then,  Sultan,  selfish  men  were  the  most  prudent, 
And  wise,  and  prudent,  then,  would  mean  the  same. 

SALADIN. 

You're  proving  what  your  speeches  contradict. 

You  know  the  real  intercut  of  man  : 

The  people  know  them  not— have  never  sought 

To  know  them.     That  alone  can  make  man  wise. 

NATH  \N. 

Which  every  man  conceives  himself  to  be. 

B  \LADIN. 

A  truce  to  modesty  !     To  meet  it  ever. 

When  we  are  seeking  truth  is  wearisome  (springs  up). 

So,  let  us  to  the  point.     Be  candid,  Jew, 

Be  frank  and  honest. 

NATHAN. 

I  will  serve  you,  prince, 
And  prove  that  I  am  worthy  of  your  favor. 

SALADIN. 

How  will  you  serve  me? 

NATHAN. 

You  shall  have  the  best 
Of  all  I  have,  and  at  the  cheapest  rate. 

SALADIN. 

What  mean  you  ?    Not  your  wares  ? — My  sister,  then, 
Shall  make  the  bargain  with  you.   (That's  for  the  lis- 
tener !) 


90  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.    [ACT  IIL 

I  am  not  versed  in  mercantile  affairs, 

And  with  u  merchant's  craft  I've  nought  to  do. 

NATHAN. 

Doubtless  you  would  inquire  if  I  have  marked 
Upon  my  route  the  movements  of  the  foe  ? 
Whether  he's  stirring  ?    If  I  may  presume 

SALADIN. 

Neither  was  that  my  object.     On  that  point 
I  know  enough.     But  hear  in--. 

NATHAN. 

I  obey. 

SALADIN. 

It  is  another,  a  far  different  tiling 
On  which  I  s« -  -dom  ;   and  sinr<>  you 

Are  called  the  Wise,  tell  m<-  which  bath  Of  law 
You  deem  tin-  best. 

NATIi 

Sultan,  1  am  a  Jew. 
SALAI'IN. 

And  I  a  Mussulman.     Tin-  <  'hrMian  stands 

Between  us.    Here  are  three  religions,  then, 

A n<l  of  these  three  one  only  can  be  tnx-. 

A  man  lik«-  you  n-main*  not   where  his  birth 

By  acri'lrnt  ha^  ca^t  him:  or  if  SO. 

Conviction,  choice,  or  ground  of  preference, 

Supports  him.      !..-t  nx\  Nathan,  hear  from  you, 

In  ronfxh-nr*'.  th««  reasons  of  your  d  . 

Which  I  have  lacked  the  leisure  to  examine. 

It  may  be,  Nathan,  that  I  am  thr  iir.M 

Sultan  who  has  iixlul«;»'«l  this  strange  caprice, 

Which  need  not,  therefore,  make  a  Sultan  blush. 

Am  1  tin*  first  '.'     Nay.  >p«-ak  :  or  it'  you  seek 

A  brief  delay  to  shaj>e  your  scattered  thoughts, 

I  yield  it  freely.     (Has  she  overheard ? 

She  will  inform  me  if  I've  acted  right.) 

Reflect  then,  Nathan,  I  shall  soon  return.  (Exit.) 


SCENE  VII.]         NATHAN  THE  WISE.  91 

SCENE  VI. 

NATHAN  (alone). 

Strange  !  how  is  this  ?    What  can  the  Sultan  want? 
I  came  prepared  for  cash — he  asks  for  truth  ! 
Truth  !  as  if  truth  were  cash  !     A  coin  disused — 
Valued  by  weight !     If  so,  'twere  well,  indeed  ! 
But  coin  quite  new,  not  coin  but  for  the  die, 
To  be  flung  down  and  on  the  counter  told — 
It  is  not  that.     Like  gold  tied  up  in  hags. 
Will  truth  lie  hoarded  in  the  wise  man's  head, 
To  be  produced  at  need  ?     Now,  in  this  case, 
Which  of  us  plays  the  Jew  ?    He  asks  for  truth. 
Is  truth  what  he  requires?  his  aim,  his  end? 
Or  does  he  use  it  as  a  subtle  snare  ? 
That  were  too  petty  for  his  noble  mind. 
Yet  what  is  e'er  too  petty  for  the  great  ? 
Did  lie  not  rush  at  once  into  (lie  house, 
Whilst,  as  a  friend,  he  would  have  paused  or  knocked? 
I  mu>t  In-ware.     Yet  to  repel  him   now 
And  act  the  stubborn  Jew,  is  not  the  thing  ; 
And  wholly  to  fling  off  the  Jew,  still  ! 
For  if  no  Jew,  he  might  with  justice  ask, 

Why  not  a  Mussulman? — That  thought  may  serve. 

Others  than  children  may  be  quieted 

With  tales  well  told.     But  see,  he  comes — he  comes. 

SCENE  VII. 
SALADIN,  NATHAN. 

SALADIN. 

(Aside)  (The  coast  is  clear)— I  am  not  come  too  soon? 
Have  you  reflected  on  this  matter,  Nathan  ? 
Speak  I  no  one  hears. 

NATHAN. 

Would  all  the  world  might  hear ! 

SALADIN. 

And  are  you  of  your  cause  so  confident  ? 


92  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.    [Acr  III. 

'Tis  wise,  indeed,  of  you  to  hide  no  truth, 
For  truth  to  hazard  all,  even  life  and  goods. 

NATHAN. 

Ay,  when  necessity  and  profit  bid. 

s  \T.\niN. 

I  hope  that  henceforth  1  si  mil  rightly  bear 
One  of  my  nam<  s.   "  Reformer  of  the  world 
And  of  the  law  : 

NATHAN. 

A  noble  title,  truly  ; 
But,  Sultan,  ere  I  quite  explain  myself, 
Permit  me  to  relate  a  tal«-. 

SALAIMN. 

Why   not? 
I  ever  was  a  friend  of  tales  well  told. 

NATHAN. 

Well  told  !     Ah,  Sultan  !  that's  another  thing. 

S  \I.\DI\. 

What  !  still  so  proudly  modest  ?     But  begin. 

NATH  \\. 

Tn  days  of  yore,  there  dwelt  in  Kastern  lands 
A  man.  who  from  a  valued  hand  ivr.-ived 
A   rin.LT  of  prie.-le^s  worth.      An  opal  Bt 

shot  from  within  an  ever-changing  hue, 

And  held  its  virtu<>  in  it*,  form  <-onr«-al«'d, 
To  render  him  of  (Jod  and  man  l>elov«-d. 
Who  wore  it  in  this  fixed  unchan^in.u  faith. 
No  \vond«'r  that  it^  l\a-t»-rn  owner  n«-'.-i- 
Withdrew  it  from  his  finder,  and  resolved 
That  to  his  house  the  rin^  should  be  secured. 
Therefore  he  thus  hequeat  In •«!  it  :  first  to  him 
Who  was  the  most  beloved  of  his  sons, 
Ordaining  then  that  he  should  leave  the  ring 
To  the  most  dear  among  his  children  ;  then, 


SCENE  VII.]          NATHAN  THE  WISE.  93 

That  without  heeding  birth,  the  fav'rite  son, 

In  virtue  of  the  ring  alone,  should  still 

Be  lord  of  all  the  house.     You  hear  me,  Sultan  ? 

SALADIN. 

I  understand.     Proceed. 

NATHAN. 

rYom  son  to  son, 

The  ring  at  length  descended  to  a  sire 
Who  had  three  sons,  alike  obedient  to  him, 
And  whom  he  loved  with  just  and  equal  love. 
The  first,  the  second,  and  the  third,  in  turn, 
According  as  they  each  apart  received 
The  overflowings  of  his  heart,  appeared 
Most  worthy  as  his  heir,  to  take  the  ring, 
Which,  witli  good-natured  weakness,  he  in  turn 
Had  promised  privately  to  each  ;  and  thus 
Things  lasted  for  a  while.     But  death  approached, 
The  father  now  embarrassed,  could  not  bear 
To  disappoint  two  sons,  who  trusted  him. 
What's  to  he  done  ?     In  secret  he  commands 
The  jeweller  to  come,  that  from  the  form 
Of  the  true  ring,  lie  may  bespeak  two  more. 
Nor  cost,  nor  pains  are  to  be  spared,  to  make 
The  rings  alike— quite  like  the  true  one.     This 
The  artist  managed.     When  the  rings  were  brought 
The  father's  eye  could  not  distinguish  which 
Had  been  the  model.     Overjoyed,  he  calls 
His  sons,  takes  leave  of  each  apart — bestows 
His  blessing  and  his  ring  on  each — and  dies. 
You  hear  me  ? 

SALADIN  (who  has  turned  away  in  perplexity) . 
Ay !  I  hear.     Conclude  the  tale. 

NATHAN. 

Tis  ended,  Sultan  !     All  that  follows  next 
May  well  be  guessed.     Scarce  is  the  father  dead, 
When  with  his  ring,  each  separate  son  appears, 
And  claims  to  be  the  lord  of  all  the  house. 


94  LESSl.\<;x   DRAMATIC   WORKS.     ACT  IIL 

Question  arises,  tumult  and  debate — 

But  all  in  vain — the  true  ring  could  no  more 

Be  then  distinguished  than (after  a  pause,  in  which 

he  awaits  the  Sultan's  reply)  the  true  faith  now. 

SALADIN. 

Is  that  your  answer  to  my  question  ? 

NATHAN. 

No! 

But  it  may  serve  as  my  apology. 
I  cannot  venture  to  decide  between 

liin^s  which  the  father  had  expressly  made, 
To  bailie  thus.-  who  would  distinguish  them. 

SALAMV 

L'in^s.  Nathan  !  Come,  a  truce  to  t  his  !  The  Creeds 
Which  I  have  named  have  broad,  «list  inctive  marks, 
Differing  in  raiment,  food,  and  drink  ! 

NATHAN. 

rue  I 

But  then  they  dilTer  not  in  their  foundation. 

Are  not  all  built  on  hiMor\   alike, 

Traditional  or  written  '.-     History 

Mu>t  be  received  on    tr  I    not  SO? 

In  whom  are  we  nioM  likely  to  put  trust? 

In  our  own  people?   in  those  \eryinen 

Whose  blnod  we  are?  who.  from  <.m- earliest  youth 

!ia\e  proved  their  l«,vc  for  us,  have  ne'er  deceived, 

K\c.  pi  in  oasefl  \\hen-  't  w«» re  better  so? 

Why  should  I  credit  my  forefathers  less 

Than  you  do  yours?  or  can  I  ask  of  you 

To  charge  y on r  ancestors  with  falsehood,  that 

The  praise  of  truth  may  be  bestowed  on  mine? 

And  so  of  Christians. 

SALADIN. 

By  our  Prophet's  faith, 
The  man  is  right.     I  have  no  more  to  say. 


SCENE  VII.J          NATHAN  THE  WISE.  95 

NATHAN. 

Now  let  us  to  our  rings  once  more  return. 

We  said  the  sons  complained  ;  each  to  the  judge 

Swore  from  his  father's  hand  immediately 

To  have  received  the  ring — as  was  the  case — 

In  virtue  of  a  promise,  that  ln»  should 

One  day  enjoy  the  ring's  pivro.Lratm-. 

hi  this  they  spoke  the  truth.     Then  each  maintained 

It  was  not  possible  that  to  himself 

His  father  had  IXHMI  false.     Each  could  not  think 

His  father  guilty  of  an  ad  so  hase. 

Rather  than  that,  n-luctant  a^  hr  was 

To  judge  his  brethren,  he  must  yet  declare 

Some  treach'rous  act  of  falsehood  had  been  done. 


SALAD  IN. 

Well !  and  the  judge  ?    I'm  curious  now  to  hear 
What  you  will  make  him  say.     Go  on,  go  on  I 

NATHAN. 

The  judge  said  :  If  the  father  is  not  brought 
Before  my  seat,  I  cannot  judgo  tin*  < 
Am  I  to  judge  enigmas  ?     Do  you  think 
That  the  true  ring  will  here  unseal  his  lips? 
Mut.  hold  !     You  tell  me  that  the  real  ring 
Kn  joys  the  secret  power  to  make  the  man 
Who  wears  it,  both  by  God  and  man,  beloved. 
Let  that  decide.     Who  of  the  three  is  loved 
Best  by  his  brethren  ?     Is  there  no*reply  ? 
What !  do  these  love-exciting  rings  alone 
Act  inwardly?    Have  they  no  outward  charm? 
Does  each  one  love  hiinself  alone ?    You're  all 
Deceived  deceivers.     All  your  rings  are  false. 
The  real  ring,  perchance,  has  disappeared  ; 
And  so  your  father,  to  supply  the  loss, 
Has  caused  three  rings  to  fill  tlie  place  of  one. 

SALADIN. 

O,  charming,  charming ! 


96  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.   [ ACT  III. 

NATHAN. 

And, — the  judge  continued  : — 
If  you  insist  on  judgment,  and  refuse 
My  counsel,  be  it  so.     I  recommend 
That  you  consider  how  the  matter  stands. 
Each  from  his  fat  In  r  hafl  i  •  08H  -  <1  a  ring  : 
Let  each  then  think  the  real  riii-  his  own. 
Your  fat  IP  ly,  de-ired  to  free 

His  power  from  one  i-ii;u'>  \\  nwnoufl  control. 
He  loved  you  all  with  an  impartial  lo\e. 
And  equally,  and  ha«l  no  inward  \\  i>h 
To  prove  the  measure  of  his  love  for  one 
By  pnvs-in^  h.-avily  upon  the 
Therefore,  let  each  one  imitate  this  ],, 
So,  free  from  pn-judi.-.-.   l«-t  «-a«-h  OD€  aim 
To  emulate  hi-  l.n-thn-n  in  tlie  strifo 
•To  prove  the  virtues  of  hK  several  ring, 
By  offices  of  kindness  and  «  i  1<. 
And  trust  in  (;«.d.      And  if.  in  \cars  to  come. 
The  virtue-  of  the  rin-  ^}\;\\\  reappear 
Amongst  your  diildrenV  cliildren.  tln-n.  OBO6  more 

Gometo  this  judgment  \  greater  far 

Than   I  shall  sit   upon  it.  and  decide. 

So  spake  the  modest  judge. 

SALAMN. 

Oh  God,  O(i 

\\T!  IA\. 
And  if  m»w.  Saladin.  you  think  you're  he 

H  M.UHN. 

(Approaches  NATHAN,  <nnl  f»L->.^  ///x  Iminl.  n-hich  he  re- 

/r////.s  In  tin'  t  ml  of  11,,'  §00*4 

This  promised  judge— I  ?— Dust !  I?— Nought !  oh  God  ! 

NATHAN. 

What  is  the  matter.  Sultan  ^ 

-ALADIN. 

Dearest  Nathan  ! 
That  judge's  thousand  years  are  not  yet  past ; 


SCENE  VII.]          NATHAN  THE  WISH.  97 

His  judgment-seat  is  not  for  me.     But  go, 
And  still  remain  my  friend.     ,s 

NATHAN. 

Has  Saladin 
Aught  else  to  say  ? 

SALADIN. 

No. 

NATHAN. 
Nothing  ? 

SALADIN. 

Truly  nothing. 
But  why  this  eagerness? 

NATHAN. 

I  could  have  wished 
An  opportunity  to  ask  a  boon. 

SAI.ADIN. 

Wait  not  for  opportunity.     Speak  now. 

NATHAN. 

I  have  been  traveling,  and  am  ju>t  returned 
From  a  long  journey,  from  collecting  debts. 
Hard  cash  is  troublesome  these  perilous  times, 
I  know  not  where  I  may  bestow  it  safely. 
These  coining  wars  need  money  ;  and;  perchance, 
You  can  employ  it  for  me,  Saladin  ? 

SALADIN  (fixing  his  eyes  upon  NATHAN). 
I  ask  not,. Nathan,  have  you  seen  Al-Hafi ? 
Nor  if  some  shrewd  suspicion  of  your  own 
Moves  you  to  make  this  offer. 

NATHAN. 

What  suspicion? 

SALADIN. 

I  do  not  ask— forgive  me,— it  is  just, 
For  what  avails  concealment  ?    I  confess 

I  was  about 

5 


98  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.    [ACT  III. 

NATHAN. 

To  ask  this  very  thing  ? 

SALADIN. 

Yes! 

NATHAN. 

Then  our  objects  are  at  once  fulfilled, 
And  if  I  cannot  send  you  all  my  store, 
The  Templar  is  to  hlame  for  that.     You  know 
Tin-  man.     I  owe  a  heavy  debt  to  him. 

SALADIN. 

The  Templar !    Surely,  Nathan,  with  your  gold 
You  do  not  aid  my  direst  foes  ? 

HAN. 

I  speak 
Of  him  whose  life  was  spared  by  Saladin. 

SALAI'IN. 

Of  what  do  you  remind  me'.'     I  had  quite 

Forgot  the  youth.     Where  is  he?     KIK.U   you  him? 

N  ATI  I  \N. 

Have  you  not  heard.  then,  how  your  clemency 

iiLrli  him  h.-is  tl,»\\«Ml  to  me  ?    How,  at  the  risk 
()i  th  oe  which  vour  mercy  gave, 

II.   saved  my  daughter  from  the  raging  flames? 

SALADIN. 

Ha !  did  he  so?    He  looked  like  one  that  would  ! 
My  hint  her,  too — his  image — would  have  done  it. 
Is  he  still  here?    Brin.Lc  him  to  me  at  once. 
I  have  so  often  spoken  to  my  sister 
Of  this  same  brother  whom  she  never  knew, 
That  I  must  let  her  see  his  counterfeit. 
Go,  fetch  him.     How  a  single  noble  deed, 
Though  but  the  offspring  of  the  merest  whim, 
Gives  birth  to  other  blessings  !    Bring  him  to  me. 

NATHAN  (loosing  SALADIN 's  liand). 
I'll  go — the  other  matter  then  is  settled.     (Exit.) 


SCENE  VIII.]        NATHAN  THE  WISE.  99 

SALADIN. 

I  wish  I  had  but  let  my  sister  listen. 
I'll  go  at  once  to  her  and  tell  it  all. 

(Exit  on  the  opposite  side.) 


SCENE  VIII. 

The  Place  of  Palms  in  tin-  n<  ojliborhood  of  the  Convent, 
the  TEMPLAR  awaits  NATHAN. 


TKMPLAR  \u-ulkingtoandfro,  inconfln't  iritJt  himself). 
The  panting  victim  here  may  rest  awhile. 
So  far  'tis  well.     I  dare  not  ask  myself 
What  change  lias  sprung  within  inc.  nor  inquire 
What  yet  may  happen.     Flight  has  proved  in  vain, 
And,  come  what  may.  I  could  no  more  than  rlee, 
The  stroke  was  far  too  sudden  to  escape. 
Long  —  much  —  I  strove  to  keep  aloof,  in  vain. 
But  once  t«»  MM-  her.  e'en  against  my  will 
To  see  her,  and  t<>  frame  a  linn  resolve 
Nev.-r  to  lose  her.     What,  then,  is  resolve? 

Ive  is  purpose  —  action,  while  —  in  truth  — 
1  \\as  hut  passive.     But  to  see  her  on 
And  feel  that  I  was  woven  into  her  being. 
Was  then  and  still  remains  theself-sam-  thing. 
To  live  apart  from  her  —  oh,  bitter  thought  !  — 
Were  death  ;  and  after  death  —  where'er  we  were  — 
T  would  there  be  death  too.     Say.  then,  is  this  love? 
And  doth  the  Templar  love?    A  Christian  loves 
A  Jewish  maiden  !     Well,  and  what  of  that? 
This  is  the  holy  land  ;  holy  to  me, 
And  dear,  because  I  have  of  late  renounced 
Full  many  a  prejudice.     What  says  my  vow? 
As  Templar  I  am  dead.     I  cease  to  live 
In  the  same  hour  that  made  me  prisoner 
To  Saladin.     The  head  he  gave  me  back, 
Was  it  the  old  one  ?    No.     I'm  newly  framed, 
I  know  no  fragment  of  the  ancient  forms 
That  bound  me  once.     My  brain  is  clearer  now, 
More  fit  for  my  paternal  home  above. 


ioo  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.    [ ACT  III. 

Now  I  can  think  as  once  my  father  thought, 
If  tales  of  him  are  not  untruly  told — 
Tales  that  were  ne'er  so  credible  as  now, 
When  I  am  stumbling  where  my  father  fell. 
Fell !  yet  'twere  better  far  to  fall  with  men 
Than  stand  with  boys.     His  conduct  guarantees 
His  approbation.     And  what  need  I  more 
Than  Nathan's  approbation  ?    Of  his  praise 
I  cannot  doubt.     Oh,  what   a  .lew  i>  In-  ! 
An<l  yet  lit-  wc.uM  appear  the  simple  Jew. 
Hui.  see,  he  conies — he  comes  in  haste— delight 
Heams  t  nun  his  eye.     But  who  leaves  Saladin 
With  other  looks?     Ho  !     Nathan  ! 


SCKNF.    IX. 

NATHAN,  ///<  TKMIM.MJ. 

NATHAN. 

Are  you  there  ? 

TEMPLAR. 

Your  visit  to  the  Sultan  has  been  long. 

NATHAN. 

Not  over  long.     My  audience  was  delayed. 
But,  Conrad,  this  man  well  supports  his  fame — 

•ameisbut   li i>  vliadow.      But  I  must 
Without  df lay   inform  you  that  he  would 

TEMPLAR. 

Say  on. 

NATHAN. 

Would  speak  with  you.     So,  come  with  me  at  once* 
I  have  some  brief  commands  to  give  at  home, 
Then  to  the  Sultan. 

TEMPLAR. 

Nathan,  I  will  ne'er 
Enter  your  door  again 


SCENE  IX.]          NATHAN  THE  WISE.  IOI 

NATHAN. 

Then  you've  been  there 
Already — spoken  with  her.     Tell  me  all. 
How  did  you  like  my  Rerlm  V 

TKMPLAR. 

Words  would  fail 

To  tell  how  much.     I  dare  not  trust  myself 
Alone  with  her  again,  unless  you  say 
That  I  may  gaze  upon  her  form  for  ever. 

NATHAN. 

What  can  this  mean  ? 

TEMPLAR  (after  a  short  pause  embracing  him  suddenly). 
My  father ! 

NATHAN. 

How,  young  man  ? 

TEMPLAR  (withdrawing  himself  as  suddenly). 
Call  me  your  son  !    I  do  implore  you,  Nathan. 

NATHAN. 

Dear  youth  ! 

TEMPLAR. 

And  not  your  son  !    I  pray  you,  Nathan, 
Conjure  you,  by  the  strongest  ties  of  Nature, 
Let  it  content  you  now  to  be  a  man  : 
Repel  me  not. 

NATHAN. 

My  dearest  friend  ! 

TEMPLAR. 

Say  son ! 

Why  not  your  son  ?    What,  if  in  Recha's  heart 
Mere  gratitude  had  paved  the  way  for  love, 
And  if  we  both  but  waited  your  assent 
To  crown  our  union  !    You  are  silent,  sir  ! 

NATHAN. 

I  am  astonished  at  your  words,  young  Knight. 


102  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.    [ACT  III. 

TKMPLAR. 

Astonished  !     Do  I  then  astonish  you 

With  your  own  thoughts,  although  you  know  themnot 

When  uttered  by  my  lip-.     Astonished,  Nathan  ? 

NATHAN. 

Would  that  I  knew  what  Stauffen  was  your  father  ! 

TEMPLAR. 

What  say  you,  Nathan  ?    At  a  time  like  this. 
Can  you  indulge  such  empty,  curious  thoughts? 

NATHAN. 
I  knew  a  Stauffen  once  whose  name  was  Conrad. 

TEMPI.  \i:. 
What,  if  my  father  bore  that  very  name  ? 

NATHAN. 
And  did  he  so  ? 

TEMPLAR. 

I  bear  my  father's  name, 
I  am  called  Con  IM  1. 

NATHAN. 

So  !     And  yet  the  man 
I  knew  was  not  your  father.  fW,  like  you, 
He  was  a  Templar,  and  was  never  married. 

TEMPLAR. 

And  what  of  that  ? 

NATHAN. 

How? 

TEMPLAR. 

He  might  still  have  been 
My  father. 

NATHAN. 

Nay,  you  jest. 


SCENE  X.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  103 

TEMPLAR. 

You're  far  too  good. 

What  matters  it  ?    Does  bastard  wound  your  ear  ? 
The  race,  good  sir,  is  not  to  be  despised. 
But  spare  my  pedigree,  and  I'll  spare  yours. 
Great  God  !  forbid  my  words  should  ever  cast 
The  smallest  doubt  on  your  ancestral  tree. 
You  can  attest  it  backwards,  leaf  by  leaf, 
To  Abraham.     And  from  that  point— I  know  it  well, 
Myself — can  even  swear  to  it. 

NATHAN. 

Your  words  are  bitter.     Do  I  merit  thi>  ? 
What  have  I  e'er  refused  you  ?    I  have  but 
Forborne  assent  at  the  first  word  you  spoke. 
No  more ! 

TEMPLAR. 

Oh  !  true,  no  more.     Forgive  me,  Nathan. 

NATHAN. 

Well,  come  with  me,  come. 

TEMPLAR. 

Whither?  to  your  house? 
That  will  I  not— it  burns.     I'll  wait  you  here. 
Farewell.     If  I'm  to  see  her  once  again, 
I  then  shall  see  her  often  ;  and  if  not, 
I  have  already  seen  her  too— too  much. 


SCENE  X. 

The  TEMPLAR,  DAJA. 
TEMPLAR. 

Too  much,  indeed  !    Strange  that  the  human  brain 
So  infinite  of  comprehension,  should 
At  times  with  a  mere  trifle  be  engrossed, 
Suddenly  filled,  and  all  at  once  quite  full, 
No  matter  what  it  teems  with.     But  the  soul 


104  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.    [Acr  IIL 

Soon  calms  again,  and  the  fermenting  stuff 

Makes  itself  room,  restoring  life  and  order. 

And  is  this,  then,  the  first  time  that  I  love? 

And  was  the  glow  to  which  I  gave  that  name 

Not  love  at  all?    And  is  this  love  alone 

Which  now  with  burning  flame  consumes  my  heart? 

DAJA  (who  has  crept  up  to  his  side). 
Sir  Knight!     Sir  Knight  ! 

TI.MPLAR. 

W 1 10  calls  ?    What,  Daja,  you  I 

DAJA. 

Yes,  I  am  here;  I  managed  t«>  slip  by  him. 
But  he  can  see  us  where  we  stand.    Come  nearer, 
And  place  yourself  with  in<»  behind  this  tree. 

TEMPLAR. 

Why  so  mysterious?    What's  the  secret,  Daja? 

DAJA. 
Yes,  'tis  a  secret  which  has  brought  me  hither— 

A  twofold  secret.     Part  is  known  tonic. 
Tin*  ot  her  part  to  you.     Com*  .  let  us  change  : 
First  tell  me  yours,  and  then  I'll  tell  you  mine. 

TI.MPLAR. 

willingly,  when  I  have  ascertained 
What  you  call  mine.     But  yours  will  throw  a  light 
Upon  the  whole.     Begin,  then. 

DAJA. 

That's  not  fair ; 

You  must  begin,  Sir  Knight,  and  I  will  follow. 
For  be  assured  my  secret  's  nothing  worth, 
Unless  I  hear  yours  first.     Then  lose  no  time, 
For  if  I  guess  it,  you've  not  trusted  me  ; 
My  secret,  then,  will  be  my  own,  and  yours 


SCENE  X.]  NATHAN  TIIK  \\ISK.  105 

Worth  nothing.     But  do  you  suppose,  Sir  Knight, 
That  you  can  hide  such  secrets  from  a  woman  ? 

TEMPLAR. 

Secrets  we  often  are  unconscious  of. 

DAJA. 

Perhaps.     But  I  must  prove  myself  your  friend 
And  tell  you  all.     Confess  ho\v  happened  it 
That  you  so  suddenly  took  leave  of  us, 
And  that  with  Nathan  you  will  not  return? 
Has  Recha,  then,  made  no  impression  on  you, 
Or  made  too  deep  a  one,  perchance  ?    Oh  ves ! 
Too  deep — too  deep!     You  are  a  hapless  bird 
Whose  fluttering  win^  the  fatal  t\vi<;  has  limed, 
Confess  it,  plainly,  with  a  word,  you  love — 
Love  her  to  ina<lne».  ami  I'll  tell  you  then 

TEMPLAR. 

To  madness  ?    Ah  !  you  understand  it  well. 

DAJA. 
Well,  grant  the  love,  the  madness  I'll  resign. 

TEMPLAR. 

Because,  of  course,  there  is  no  doubt  of  it. 
A  Templar  love  a  Jewess  !— 

DAJA. 

Why,  it  seems 

Absurd.     But  often  there's  more  fitness  in 
Some  things  than  we  can  readily  discern ; 
And  'twould  not  be  the  first  time  that  our  Lord 
Had  drawn  us  to  Him  by  a  secret  path 
Which  we  had  ne'er  discovered  of  ourselves. 

TEMPLAR. 

Solemnly  spoken  !  (and  if  for  our  Lord 
I  substituted  Providence,  'twere  true). 
You  make  me  curious,  far  beyond  my  wont. 

DAJA. 

This  is  the  land  of  miracles  ! 
5* 


io6  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.    [ACT  IIL 

TEMPLAR. 

Ay,  true, 

Of  miracles  !     Can  it  be  other  \\i-.-. 
When  all  the  world  flocks  hither  ?     Dearest  Daja, 
You  have  your  wish  ;  so  take  it  as  confessed 
That  I  do  love  her,  nor  can  comprehend 
How  I  can  live  without  her. 

DAJA. 

Can  this  be  ? 

Then  swear,  Sir  Knight,  to  m.ik«   her  yours— to  save 
Her  here  on  earth — to  save  her  there  for  ever. 

TEMPI.  AIL 

How  can  T  this?     Uo\v  can  I  swear  to  do 
What  stands  not  in  my  power. 

DAJA. 

Tis  in  your  power  £ 
One  single  word  brings  it  within  your  power. 

TEMPLAR. 
But  will  her  father  smile  upon  my  suit? 

DAJA. 

Her  father,  truly  I    He  shall  be  compelled. 

TKMPLAK. 

Compell'd  !     What,  has  he  fallen  among  thieves  ? 
Compeird ! 

DAJA. 

Then  hear  me.    Nathan  will  consent : 
He  must  consent. 

TEMPLAR. 

Consent !  and  must  I    Oh,  Daja! 
T  have  already  tried  to  touch  that  chord  ; 
It  vibrates  not  responsive. 

DAJA. 
What !  reject  you  ? 


SCENE  X.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  107 

TEMPLAR. 

He  answered  me  in  such  discordant  tone 
That  I  was  hurt. 

DAJA. 

What  say  you  ?    Did  you  breathe 
The  shadow  of  a  wish  to  marry  Recha. 
And  did  not  Nathan  leap  for  joy  ?    Did  he 
Draw  coldly  back— raise  obstacles  ? 

TEMPLAR. 

He  did. 

DAJA. 

Then  I'll  deliberate  no  moment  more. 

TKMPLAR  (after  a  pause). 
And  yet  you  are  deliberating  still. 

DAJA. 

Nathan  in  all  things  has  been  ever  good. 
I  owe  him  much.     Did  he  refuse  to  listen  ? 
God  knows  it  grieves  me  to  constrain  him  thus. 

TEMPLAR. 

I  pray  you,  Daja,  now  to  terminate 
This  dire  uncertainty.     But  if  you  doubt 
Whether  the  thing  you  would  impart  to  me 
Be  right  or  wrong,  worthy  of  shame  or  honor, 
Then  tell  it  not,  and  henceforth  I'll  forget 
You  have  a  secret  it  were  well  to  hide. 

DAJA. 

Your  words  but  spur  me  on  to  tell  you  all. 
Then  learn  that  Recha  is  no  Jewess — that 
She  is  a  Christian  maid. 

TEMPLAR  (COldly). 

I  wish  you  joy  ! 

At  last  the  tedious  labor's  at  an  end. 
The  birth-pangs  have  not  hurt  you.     Still  go  on 
With  undiminished  zeal,  and  people  heaven 
When  you  are  fit  no  more  to  people  earth. 


io8  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.     [Acr  ILL 

DAJA. 

How,  Knight !  and  does  the  news  I  bring  deserve 
Such  bitter  taunts  ?    Does  it  confer  no  joy 
On  you  to  hear  that  Recha  is  a  Christian, 
On  you,  her  lover,  and  a  Christ  ian  knight  ? 

TKMPLAR. 

And  more  especially  since  Recha  is 
A  Christian  of  your  making  ? 

DAJA. 

Think  you  so? 

Thru  I  would  fain  see  him  that  may  convert  her. 
It  is  her  fate  long  since  to  have  been  that 
Which  she  can  now  no  more  become. 

TEMPLAR. 

Explain, 
Or  leave  me. 

DAJA. 

Well !  she  is  a  Christian  maid, 
Of  Christian  parents  born— and  is  baptized. 

TEMPLAR   (hastily). 
And  Nathan ! 

DAJA. 

Not  her  father. 

TEMPLAR. 

Nathan  not 
Her  father  ?    Are  you  sure  of  that  ? 

DAJA. 

I  am  ; 

The  truth  has  cost  me  tears  of  blood.    He's  not. 

TEMPLAR. 

"But  as  his  daughter  he  has  brought  her  up, 
Brought  up  the  Christian  maiden  as  a  Jewess  ? 

DAJA. 
Just  so. 


SCENE  X.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  109 

TEMPLAR. 

And  knows  she  aught  about  her  birth  ? 
Has  she  not  learnt  from  him  that  she  was  born 
A  Christian  and  no  Jewess? 

DAJA. 

Never  yet. 

TEMPLAR. 

And  he  not  only  let  the  child  grow  up 
In  this  mistaken  notion,  but  he  leaves 
The  woman  in  it. 

DAJA. 

Ay,  ala^  ! 

TI.MPLAR. 

Oh,  Nathan ! 

How  can  the  wise,  good  Nathan  lend  himself 
To  stifle  Nature's  voice— to  misdirect 
The  yearnings  of  a  heart  in  such  a  way 
Which,  to  itself  abandoned,  would  have  formed 
Another  bias,  Daja?    Ay,  in  truth, 
The  secret  is  of  moment,  and  may  have 
Important  issues.     But  I  feel  perplexed  : 
I  know  not  how  I  ought  to  act.     But  go, 
Let  me  hare  breathing  time.     He  may  approach, 
He  may  surprise  us  suddenly.     Farewell  I 

DAJA. 
I  tremble  with  affright. 

TEMPLAR. 

And  I  can  scarce 

Express  my  thoughts.     But  go  ;  and  should  you  chance 
To  meet  him,  say  he'll  find  me  at  the  Sultan's. 

DAJA. 

Let  him  not  see  that  you  have  any  thing 
Against  him.    That  'twere  well  to  keep  reserved, 
To  give  the  proper  turn  to  things  at  last. 


no  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.     [ ACT  IV. 

It  may  remove  your  scruples,  touching  Recha. 
But  if  you  take  her  back  to  Europe,  Knight, 
You  will  not  leave  me  here  ? 

TEMPLAR. 

We'll  see,  now  go  ! 


ACT  IV. 

SCENE  I.— The  Cloisters  and  tin-  Convent. 
The  FRIAH,  ami  y>/v.sv//////  «ft,  ,-,r<ir<Ix  tln>  TKMPLAJL 

rUIAR. 

Ay,  ay  !   h«-  niuM   1..-  ii-lit.  tin-  Patriarch  ! 
And  yet,  of  all  his  IMIMIM^.  no  ^n-at  part 
Ha-  prospered  in  my  hands.      I'.ut  why  should  he 
Kntnist  such  tasks  to  me  '.'     T  have  no  wish 
T<>  play  tin-  knave.  (..  \\  hr.-.ll,.  and  p.-rsuade, 
To  woi-ni  out  secrets,  and  to  thrust  my  hand 
Into  my  lU'i.L'hhor's  husjness.     Not  for  this 
Did  I  renounce  th<-  world,  that  1  mi^ht  be 
Entangled  with  its  caivs  for  other  m.-n. 

/.  riiHj  tiln'njif/1/). 
Good  brother,  are  you  here?    I've  sought  you  long. 

1  HIAR. 

Me,  sir? 

TIMPLAR. 

What,  don't  you  recollect  me,  then  ? 

FRIAR. 

Ay!  but.  Sir  Knight.  I  never  thought  to  see 
Your  face  airain — and  so  I  hoped  in  God. 
God  know.;  how  much  I  hated  the  proposal 
Which  I  was  bound  to  make  you,  and  He  knows 
How  little  I  desired  you  should  assent, 
How  in  my  inmost  soul  I  was  rejoiced 


SCENE  I.  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  ill 

When  you  refused,  without  a  moment's  thought, 
To  do  what  had  been  shameful  in  a  Knight. 
But  have  you  thought  the  matter  o'er  again  ? 

TEMPLAR. 

You  seem  to  know  what  object  brings  me  here. 

FRIAR. 

Have  you,  Sir  Knight,  reflected  by  this  time, 

That  our  good  Patriarch  is  not  much  deceived 

In  thinking  gold  and  glory  may  be  won 

By  his  commission  ?  that  a  foe's  a  foe, 

\\  <  re  he  our  guardian  angel  seven  times  o'er? 

Have  you  'gainst  flesh   and  blood  weighed  all  these 

things, 
And  are  you  come  to  strike  a  bargain  now  ? 

TEMPLAR. 

My  dear  good  man,  be  patient ;  not  for  this 

Am  I  come  hither  :  not  for  aught  like  this 

Do  I  desire  to  see  the  Patriarch. 

On  every  point  my  thoughts  remain  unchanged  ; 

Nor  would  I  for  the  wealth  of  all  this  world 

Forfeit  that  good  opinion,  which  I  won 

From  such  an  upright,  honest  man  as  you. 

I  merely  come  to  ask  the  Patriarch 

For  counsel. 

FRIAR  (looking  round  timidly). 
Counsel  from  the  Patriarch ! 
— What,  you !  a  knight  to  ask  a  priest's  advice ! 

TEMPLAR. 

Mine  is  a  priestly  business. 

FRIAR. 

Yet  the  priests 

Would  scorn  a  knight's  advice,  were  their  affairs 
Ever  so  knightly. 

TEMPLAR. 

Therefore  they're  allowed 
To  err  sometimes,  a  privilege  which  I, 


112  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.     [Acx  IV. 

For  one,  don't  greatly  envy  them  ;  and  yet, 
If  I  were  acting  only  for  myself, 
And  were  not  bound  to  others,  I  should  care 
But  little  for  advice.     But  in  some  tiling 
T\\  ere  better  to  go  wrong  by  others'  guidance 
Than,  by  <»ur  own.  #o  ri^ht.     And  I  observe, 
By  this  time,  that  religion  ?s  naught  hut  party, 
And  he  who  in  his  o\vn  belief  i-  mod 
Impartial,  does  but  hold  the  standard  up 
Of  his  own  creed,  howe'er  unconsciously. 
Yet  since  'tis  so,  it  must  be  ri^ht . 

FRIAK. 

I'm  silent. 
In  truth,  I  don't  quite  comprehend. 

T!  MI'LAR. 

And  yet — 

(Let  me  consider  first  what  'tis  I  want — 
I ). vision  or  advice  from  sage  or  simple  '.') 
Thank-,  brother;  F«l,  I  thank  y«»n  for  your  hint. 

What   is  a  patriarch?      He  t  hoii  for  once 
Mv  patriarch  :   for  't  is  tin-  ( 'hrist  ian  rat  her 
AVhom  in  th«-  patrian-h   1  would  consult. 
Than  in  the  Christian  the  mere   patriarch. 

I-IIIAI:. 

Hold,  hold,  Sir  Knight  !   no  more  of  this,  T  find 
That  you  mi-take  inc.      Mr  \vho  hath  l.-arnt  much 

Must  needs  have  many  cares.      I  know  but  one 

But  hark,  behold!  here  OOmOB  the  very  man! 
Tis  lie,  so  stay  ;  he  has  perceived  us  both. 


SCENE  II. 

The  PATRIARCH,  after  nuuvJn'nu  up  our  of  the  aisles 
with  <jrcat  ]>nmp,  approaches. 

TKMPLAR. 

I'd  rather  shun  him — he  is  not  my  man — 

A  round,  red  smiling  prelate  !    And  what  state  ! 


SCENE  II.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  113 

FRIAK. 

But  you  should  see  him  at  a  festival, 
Now  he  but  comes  from  visiting  the  sick. 

TEMPLAR. 

Great  Saladin  will  then  have  cause  to  blush. 

PATRIARCH  (coming  forward,  makes  signs  to  the  FRIAR). 
Was  that  the  Templar  ?    What's  his  business  here  ? 

FRIAR. 
I  know  not. 
PATRIARCH  (advancing,  wh  ilxt  the  FRIAR  and  his  train 

ret  it 

Well,  Sir  Knight.  I'm  truly  glad 
To  meet  so  brave  a  youth.     So  very  young, 
Something  may  come  of  him,  if  Heaven  assist. 

TEMPLAR. 

Not  more  than  has  already  come  of  him, 
But  rather  less,  my  reverend  father. 

PATRIARCH. 

Well, 

It  is  my  prayer  that  so  devout  a  Knight 
May  for  the  cause  of  Christendom  and  God 
Be  long  preserved  ;  nor  can  it  fail  to  be, 
If  valor  will  give  ear  to  aged  words. 
Then  say,  how  can  I  serve  you,  Sir  ? 

TEMPLAR. 

With  that 
In  which  my  youth's  deficient— sound  advice. 

PATRIARCH. 

Most  gladly,  if  you'll  follow  my  advice. 

TEMPLAR. 

Not  blindly,  though. 
8 


114  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.     [ACT  IV. 

PATRIARCH. 

Whose  words  are  those?    Indeed, 
None  should  neglect  to  use  the  intellect 
Bestowed  by  God,  when  it  is  suitable. 
But  is  it  always  suitable  ?    O  no  ! 
If  God,  through  one  of  the  celestial  choir — 
That  is.  through  one  of  the  blest  minister* 
Of  His  niovit  sacred  word  —  should  condescend 
To  show  some  way  by  which  tin-  Church's  weal, 
Or  else  the  general  good  of  Christendom. 
Might  be  secured,  what  man  would  venture  then 
To  weitfh  the  laws  of  intellect  agninst 
His  will,  who  ta^hioncd  intellect  its- 
Or  measure  the  unchanged  decree-  <  t   l 
By  empty  rules  that  suit  this  petty  world  ? 
But  of  all  this  enough.     Now  tell  me.  Knight, 
Wherefore  you  seek  our  counsel  ? 

TEMPLAR. 

Reverend  father ! 

Suppose  a  Jew  possessed  an  only  child— 
A  girl — whom  he  with  fond  parental  care 
Trained  to  each  virtue,  treasured  as  his  soul, 
Whilst  she.  with  love  as  ardent  as  his  own, 
Repaid  his  love,— suppose  it  rumored  then 
That  she  wa^  n..t  the  daughter  of  this  Jew, 
But  a  poor  orphan,  purchased  in  her  youth, 
Or  stolen,  or  found-   or  anything,  but  Mill 
Of  Christian  birth,  and  inner  youth  baptized, 
And  that  the. lew  had  reared  her  in  his  faith, 
Allowed  her  to  be  thought  a  Jewish  maid. 
And  firmly  to  believe  herself  his  child. — 
Say,  reverend  father,  what  should  then  be  done  ? 

PATRIARCH. 

I  shudder  at  the  thought !     But,  worthy  Sir, 
Say,  is  this  fact,  or  mere  hypothesis  ? 
That  is,  if  your  own  head  has  framed  the  case, 
Or  has  it  happened — does  it  still  exist  ? 


SCENE  II.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  115 

TEMPLAR. 

That's  mi  important,  and  could  not  assist 
Your  reverence  to  pronounce  upon  the  point. 

PATRIARCH. 

What !  unimportant !     See,  Sir  Knight,  how  apt 

Proud  reason  is  to  err  in  sacred  things. 

'Tis  of  deep  import ;  though,  'tis  true,  the  case 

May  be  the  offspring  of  your  sportive  wit, 

When  we  should  straight  dismiss  it  from  our  thoughts 

And  I  should  then  refer  you  to  the  stage 

Where  pros  and  cons  like  these  are  oft  discussed 

With  loud  applause.     But  if  the  object  be, 

By  something  better  than  a  sleight  of  hand, 

To  sound  my  judgment,  if  the  thin--  be  fact, 

And  may  have  happened  in  pur  diocese, 

Here  in  our  dear  Jerusalem  itself, 

Why  then 

TEMPLAR. 
What  then  ? 

PATRIARCH. 

Then  were  it  well,  Sir  Knight, 
To  execute  at  once  upon  the  Jew 
The  penalty  provided  for  the  case, 
By  Papal  and  Imperial  laws,  against 
So  foul  a  crime,  such  dire  iniquity. 

TEMPLAR. 

Indeed ! 

PATRIARCH. 

The  laws  I  mention  have  decreed 
That  if  a  Jew  shall  to  apostasy 
Seduce  a  Christian,  he  shall  die  by  fire. 

TEMPLAR. 

Indeed ! 

PATRIARCH. 

How  much  more  when  a  Jew  by  force 
Tears  from  baptismal  bonds  a  Christian  child  ? 


n6  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.    ACT  IV. 

For  all  that's  done  to  children  is  by  force, 
Save  what  the  Church  shall  order  and  perform. 

TEMPLAR. 

What  if  the  child  were  steeped  in  misery, 

And  must  have  died,  but  for  this  bounteous  Jew? 

PATRIARCH. 

It  matters  not :  the  Jew  should  still  be  burnt. 

Twere  better  to  expire  in  mi>ei -\ . 

Than  live  to  suffer  never-ending  pains. 

The  Jew  moreover  should  not  have  forestalled 

The  hand  of  (Jod.  whom  had  He  willed  to  save, 

Could  save  without  him. 

TEMPLAR. 

Make  him  happy  too, 
In  spite  of  him. 

PATRIARCH. 

It  matters  not,  the  Jew 
Must  still  be  burnt. 

TEMPLAR. 

That  griev'-  m.    very  much, 
A  i id  all  the  more,  as  people  say  that  he 
Bai  reared  the  child  not   in  his  own  belief, 
So  much  as  in  no  faith  at  all,  and  taught 
Her  neither  more  nor  less  of  God  than  is 
By  reason  asked. 

PATRIARCH. 

It  matters  not.  the  Jew 

Must  still  be  burnt— and  for  this  very  cause 
Would  merit  threefold  death.     To  rear  a  child 
Wit  hout  a  faith  !    Not  even  teach  a  child 
The  greatest  of  all  duties — to  believe  ! 
Tis  heinous,  and  I'm  rapt  in  wonder,  Knight, 

That  you  yourself 

TEMI 

Oh,  reverend  Sir,  the  rest 
In  the  confessional,  if  God  allow.  (Is  going.) 


SCENE  II.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  117 

PATRIARCH, 

What,  going!  and  not  await  my  questioning! 
Not  name  to  me  this  infidel,  this  Jew  ! 
Not  find  him  out  for  me  at  once  !     But,  hold  ! 
A  thought  occurs.     I'll  to  the  Sultan  straight. 
According  to  the  treaty  we  have  sworn 
With  Saladin,  he  must  protect  our  creed 
With  all  the  privileges,  all  the  rights 
That  appertain  to  our  im»t  holy  faith. 
Thank  (Jod  !  we  have  retained  the  deed  itself, 
With  seal  and  signature  affixed,  and  we 
Can  readily  convince  him.  make  him  feel 
How  full  of  peril  for  the  state  it  is 
Not  to  believe.     All  civil  bonds  are  rent 
Asunder,  torn  to  pieces.  Knight,  when  men 
Have  no  belief.     Away,  away  for  ever 
With  such  impiety ! 

TEMPI. AK. 

T  much  deplore 

That  I  want  time  to  relish  this  discourse, 
This  holy  sermon.     Saladin  awaits 
My  coming. 

PATRIARCH. 

Ah,  indeed  ! 

Tl.MPLAR. 

And  I'll  prepare 

The  Sultan  for  your  presence,  reverend  Sir, 
If  you  desire. 

PATRIARCH. 

Why,  yes  !  for  I  have  heard 
You  have  found  favor  in  the  Sultan's  sight. 
I  beg  to  be  remembered  with  respect. 
Zeal  in  the  cause  of  God  impels  me  on, 
And  all  excesses  are  performed  for  Him. 
Weigh  that  in  kindness,  then,  most  noble  Sir! 
But,  tell  me,  was  your  case  about  the  Jew 
A  problem  merely  ? 

TEMPLAR. 

Problem !  ( He  retires. ) 


n8  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.     [ ACT  IV. 

PATRIARCH. 

(Of  the  facts, 

I  must  have  fuller  knowledge.     I  must  be 
Better  informed  ;  'twill  be  another  job 
For  brother  Bonafides.)     Son,  come  hither ! 

(Speaks  with  the  FRIAR  as  he  retires.) 


SCENE  III. 

SALADIN'S  Palace.  • 

(Slaves  are  employe*  I  ///  /*/•///;//////  bags  of  gold,  and  piling 

tin  in    on    //,,'    floor.) 

SALADIN,  SITTAH. 

S  ALA  DIN. 

In  truth,  this  weary  DUMM.-^  m-Vr  will  end  ; 
Say,  is  it  nearly  done  ? 

A  SLAVE. 
One  half  is  done. 

SALAMN. 

Then  take  the  rest  to  Sit  tali .     \Vh<>iv's  Al-IIafi  ? 

He  must  take  charge  ot  \\  Ita    is  here.     But,  hold, 

Were  it  not  best  to  send  it  to  my  father? 

Here  'twill  In-  quickly  ^pcnt.     I  feel,  in  truth, 

That   1  am  ^rowin^  nn-rrl\  .      At  la^t 

He  must  be  skill  ul  who  ^vts  much  from  me, 

And  till  from  K.urypt  furtln-r  t ivasure  comes, 

Our  poverty  must  be  content  to  struggle. 

Yet,  at  the  Holy  Sepulchre,  the  cost 

Of  all  the  Christian  pilgrims  must  be  paid  : 

They  must,  at  least,  not  go  with  empty  hands. 

SITTAH. 

Why,  what  is  this  ?  wherefore  this  gold  to  me  ? 

SALADIN. 

Recoup  yourself  with  it,  if  aught  is  left, 
Keep  it  in  store. 


SCENE  III.]          NATHAN  THE  WISH.  119 

SITTAH. 

Are  Nathan  and  the  Knight 
Not  yet  arrived  ? 

SALADIN. 

The  former  everywhere 
Is  seeking  him. 

SITTAH. 

Behold  what  I  have  found 

In  turning  o'er  my  ornaments  and  ^ewels  (showing  a 
small  portrait ). 

SALADIX . 

Ha  !  what  is  here  !  a  portrait !  yes,  my  brother ! 

Tis  he — 'tis  he  !     Was  he — ivas  he,  alas  ! 

Oh  dear,  brave  youth  !  s<>  early  lost   to  me  ! 

With  thee  at  hand  what   had  I  not  achieved  I 

Give  me  the  portrait,  Sittah.     I  recall 

This  picture  well.     He  gave  it  to  his  Lilla — 

Your  elder  sister — when  one  summer  morn 

He  tore  himself  away  reluctantly. 

She  would  not  yield,  but  clasped  him  in  her  arms. 

'Twas  the  last  morning  that  he  e'er  rode  forth, 

And  I,  alas  !  I  let  him  ride  alone. 

Poor  Lilla  died  of  grief,  and  ne'er  forgave 

My  error  that  I  let  him  ride  alone. 

He  ne'er  returned. 

SITTAH. 
Poor  brother ! 

SALADIN. 

Say  no  more. 

A  few  short  years,  and  we  shall  ne'er  return. 
,  And  then  who  knows  ?    But  'tis  not  death  alone 
That  blights  the  hopes  and  promises  of  youth, 
They  have  far  other  foes,  and  oftentimes 
The  strongest,  like  the  weakest,  is  o'ercome. 
But  be  that  as  it  may,  I  must  compare 
This  portrait  with  the  Templar,  that  I  may 
Observe  how  much  my  fancy  cheated  me. 


120  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.     [Acr  TV. 

SITTAH. 

Twas  for  that  purpose  that  I  brought  it  here. 
But  give  it,  and  I'll  tell  thee  if  'tis  like  : 
We  women  are  best  judges  of  such  things. 

SALADIN  (to  the  doorkeeper  who  enters). 
Who's  there  ?  the  Templar  ?    Bid  him  come  at  once. 

SITTAH. 

Not  to  disturb  you,  or  perplex  him  with 
My  curious  questions,  I'll  retire  awhile.     (Throws  her- 
self upon  the  sofa.  <tn'l  lets  her  n-il  fall.) 

SALADIN. 

That's  well.     (And  now  his  voice— will  that  be  like? 
For  Assad's  voice  still  slumbers  in  my  soul !) 


SCENE  IV. 
The  TEMPLAR  and  SALADIN. 

TEMPLAR. 
I  am  your  prisoner,  Sultan. 

SALADIN. 

You  my  prisoner! 

Shall  I  refuse  him  liberty,  whoso" life 
I  freely  spared  ? 

TEMPI.  A  K. 

It  U  my  duty.  Sire, 

To  hear,  ami  not  anticipate,  your  will. 
Yet  it  but  ill  becomes  my  character 
Ami  station.  Sultan,  to  be  thus  profuse 
Of  gratitude  because  you've  spared  my  life— 
A  life  which  henceforth  is  at  your  command. 

SALADIN. 

Only  forbear  to  use  it  to  my  hurt. 
Not  that  I  grudge  my  mortal  enemy 
Another  pair  of  hands  ;  but  such  a  heart 


SCENE  IV.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  121 

As  yours  I  do  not  yield  him  willingly. 

You  valiant  youth  !  I  have  not  gauged  you  ill : 

In  soul  and  body,  you  are  truly  Assad. 

I  fain  would  learn  where  you  have  been  so  long 

Concealed.     In  what  dim  cavern  you  have  slept? 

\\  hat  spirit,  in  some  region  of  the  blest, 

lias  kept  this  beauteous  flower  so  fresh  in  bloom? 

Mrthinks  I  could  remind  you  of  our  sports 

In  days  gone  by  :  and  I  could  chide  you,  too, 

For  having  kept  one  secret  from  my  ear, 

For  having  dared  one  gallant  deed  alone. 

I'm  happy  that  so  much  of  this  deceit 

At  least  is  true,  that  in  my  sear  of  life 

An  Assad  blooms  for  me  once  more.     And  you, 

You  too  are  happy,  Knight ! 

TEMPLAR. 

Whate'er  you  will- 
Whatever  be  your  thought— lies  as  a  wish 
Within  mine  inmost  soul. 

S  ALA  DIN. 

We'll  prove  you,  then ; 

Will  you  abide  with  me  ? — cling  to  my  side, 
Whether  as  Christian  or  as  Mussulman, 
In  turban  or  white  mantle  ?     Choose  your  garb — 
Choose  for  yourself.     I  never  have  desired 
That  the  same  bark  should  grow  on  every  tree. 

TEMPLAR. 

Else,  Saladin,  you  never  had  become 
The  hero  that  you  are— who'd  rather  be 
The  gardener  of  the  Lord. 

SALADIN. 

If  thus  you  think 
Of  Saladin,  we're  half  agreed,  already 

TEMPLAR. 

Nay,  quite ! 

SALADIN  (offering  his  hand). 

One  word  ! 
6 


122  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.    [ACT  IV. 

TKMPLAR  (taking  it). 

One  man  !  and  with  this  hand 
Take  more  than  you  can  e'er  take  back  again. 
Henceforth  I'm  wholly  yours. 

SALAMN. 

Tliis  is  too  much — 
For  one  day  'tis  too  much  !     Came  he  not  with  you  ? 

TEMPLAR. 

Who? 

S  A  LA  I  UN. 

Who?    Nathan. 

TEMPLAR. 

No  ;  I  came  alone. 

SALAMN. 

Oh,  what  a  deed  was  thine  !  what  happiness 
That  such  a  deed  should  serve  so  gocd  a  man  I 

TEMPLAR. 

Twas  nothing. 

SALAMN. 

Why  so  co  1.1,  O  valiant  youth  ! 
When  God  makes  man  His  minister  of  good, 
He  need  not  be  so  cold,  nor  modestly 
Wish  to  appear  so  cold. 

TEMPLAR. 

But  in  the  world 

All  things  have  many  sides,  and  who  is  h<> 
Can  comprehend  how  they  may  tit  each  other? 

SAL  A  DIN. 

Cling  ever  to  what's  noble,  and  praise  God  ! 
He  knows  how  all  things  fit.     But  it  you  are 
So  scrupulous,  young  man,  I  must  beware. 
I  too  have  many  sides,  and  some  of  them 
May  seem  to  you  not  always  made  to  fit. 


SCENE  IV.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  I 

TEMPLAR. 

That  grieves  me  ;  for  suspicion,  at  the  least, 
Is  not  a  sin  of  mine. 

SALADIN. 

Then,  tell  me,  whom 

Do  you  suspect ?    Not  Nathan,  surely  ?    What! 
Nathan  suspected,  and  by  you?     Explain — 
Afford  me  this  first  proof  of  confidence. 

TKMPLAR. 

I've  nothing  against  Nathan.     I  am  vexed, 
But  with  myself  alone. 

SALAIMN. 

Why  so? 
TEMPLAR. 

For  dreaming 

That  any  Jew  can  think  himself  no  Jew. 
I  dreamt  this  waking. 

SALADIN. 

Tell  me  all  your  dream. 

TEMPLAR. 

You  know  that  Nathan  has  a  daughter,  Sultan  ! 

And  what  I  did  for  her,  I  did— because 

I  did  it.     Far  too  proud  to  reap  the  thanks 

I  had  not  sown,  fromday.to  day  1  shunned 

The  maiden's  sight.     Her  father  was  afar. 

He  comes,  he  hears,  he  seeks  me,  give  me  thanks ; 

Wishes  that  she  might  please  me,  and  he  talks 

Of  dawning  prospects.     Well.  I  hear  it  all, 

I  listen  to  him,  go  and  see  the  maid — 

O  !  such  a  maiden,  Sultan.     But,  I  blush. 

SALADIN. 

Why  blush  ?    Blush  that  a  Jewish  maid  should  win 
Your  admiration  ?     'Tis  a  venial  fault. 

TEMPLAR. 

But  oh  !  that,  through  her  father's  sweet  discourse, 


124  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC   WORKS.     [Acx  IV. 

To  this  impression  my  o'er-hasty  heart 
Such  weak  resistance  offered  !     Fool,  I  leaped 
A  second  time  into  the  flame,  and  then 
I  wooed,  and  was  denial. 

SALADIN. 

Denied  ? — denied  ? 

TEMPLAR. 

The  prudent  father  does  not  plainly 

No,  to  my  suit— but  he  nm-t  first  Inquire— 

He  must  reflect.     Well,  be  it  so.     Had  I 

Not  done  the  same?    I  looked  about,  inquired — 

Reflected — ere  I  plunged  into  the  flames 

Where  she  VTM  shrinking.     Oh,  by  Heaven  !  it  is 

A  splendid  thing  to  be  so  circumspect ! 

SALADIN. 

Nay,  but  you  must  concede  somewhat  to  age. 
His  doubts  will  p;:  nor  will  he  wish 

You  to  become  a  Jew. 

TEMPLAR. 

Who  knows  ? 

SALADIN. 

Who  knows ! 
One  who  knows  Nathan  better  than  yourself. 

TEMPI.  \i:. 

And  yet  the  superstitions  we  have  learned 
From  education,  do  not  lo-e  their  power 
When  we  have  found  them  out  :  nor  are  all  free 
Whose  judgment  mocks  the  galling  chains  they  wear. 

SALADIN. 

Tis  wisely  said  ;  but  Nathan,  surely  Nathan 

TEMPLAR. 

That  superstition  is  the  worst  of  all 

Which  thinks  itself  the  easiest  to  be  borne 


SCENE  IV.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  125 

SALADIN. 

Tis  possible.     But  Nathan 

TEMPLAR. 

And  to  trust 

To  it  alone  a  blind  humanity 
Till  it  is  used  to  truth's  more  brilliant  light. 

To  it  alone 

SALADIN. 

Well,  well  !  But  Nathan's  fate 
Is  not  to  be  so  weak 

TEMPLAR. 

I  thought  so  once, 

But  what  if  this  bright  pattern  to  mankind 
Were  such  a  thorough  Jew  that  he  seeks  out 
For  Christian  children  to  bring  up  as  Jews  ? 
How  then  ? 

SALADIN. 

Who  speaks  so  of  him  ? 

TEMPLAR. 

E'en  the  maid 

For  whom  I'm  so  distressed,  with  hopes  of  whom. 
He  seemed  so  glad  to  recompense  the  deed 
He  would  not  suffer  me  to  do  for  naught. 
This  maid  is  not  his  daughter  ;  no,  she  is 
A  kidnapped  Christian  child. 

SALADIN. 

Whom  Nathan  now 
Refuses  you ! 

TEMPLAR  (earnestly). 
Refuse  or  not  refuse, 
He  is  found  out — the  prating  hypocrite 
Is  now  found  out ;  but  on  this  Jewish  wolf, 
For  all  his  philosophical  sheep's  garb, 
Dogs  I  can  loosen  who  will  tear  his  hide. 

SALADIN   (earnestly). 
Peace,  Christian ! 


126  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.     [ACT  IV. 

TEMPLAR. 

What  !  peace,  Christian  ?     Wherefore  so  ? 
Shall  Jew  and  Mussulman  be  free  to  boast 
Their  creeds,  and  shall  the  Christian  be  ashamed 
To  own  his  faith  ? 

SALAIHN   (litot'c  >  (trn,  x////). 
06,  (  'hristian  ! 


'I  I  MI'LAIi 

Yes.  I  feel 

What  weight  <>f  blame  liev  in  your  calm  reproof  — 
In  that  one  wor.l  pronounced  by  Saladin. 
Oh  !  that  1  knew  what   As^ad  would   have  done 
lla.l  he  but  lill'd  my   pi. 

SALAMN. 

He  had  not  <lon«' 

Much  better;  nay,  perhaps.  ha<l  been  nx.i-c  \\arm. 
Where  did  you  learn  t<-  brib*-  me  with  a  wor.l  ? 
And  yet,  in  truth,  it    all  lias  lia|»p»-iM-d  ><» 
As  you  narrate,  it  is  not  much  like  Nathan. 
But  Nathan  N  m\    I'riend.  and   <>t'   my  friends 

One  moBt  not  quarrel  with  the  other. 

Take  counsel,  act  with  prudence.    Donotloose 
On  liim  the  fanatics  amon-;  your 
Keep  silence.      All  the  cleruy  of  vein 
Would  call  to  me  for  vei  upon  him 

With  far  more  show  of  ri^ht  than  1  could  wish. 
Let  not  revenge  impel  you  to  become 
A  Christian  to  the  Jew  or  Mussulman. 

TEMPLAR, 

Thanks  to  the  Patriarch'.^  bloodthirsty  rage, 
Your  counsel  almost  comes  too  late  ;  and  I 
Had  nearly  proved  his  cruel  instrument. 

SALADIX. 

How  so  ?  and  did  you  see  the  Patriarch 
Before  you  came  to  me  ? 


SCENE  V.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  127 

TEMPLAR. 

Yes,  in  the  storm 

Of  passion— in  the  whirl  of  doubt —       Forgive  me 
I  fear  you  will  no  longer  find  in  me 
One  feature  of  your  Assad. 

SALADIN. 

Yes,  that  fear 

Is  like  him.     But,  methinks,  I  know  full  well 
The  weaknesses  from  which  our  virtues  spring : 
Attend  to  these — the  former  cannot  hurt. 
But  go,  seek  Nathan,  as  he  sought  for  you, 
And  bring  him  hither.     Be  but  reconciled. 
Are  you  in  earnest,  Knight,  about  this  maid? 
Be  calm — she  shall  be  yours.     Nathan  shall  feel 
That  without  swine's-flesh  lie  has  dared  to  rear 
A  Christian  child.     Now,  Templar,  leave  me.     Go! 

(Exit  tlie  TEMPLAR.    SITTAH  leaves  the  sofa.) 


SCENE  V. 
SALADIN  and  SITTAH. 

SITTAH. 
Tis  strange,  indeed. 

SALADIN. 

What  say  you  now,  my  Sittah? 
Was  not  our  Assad  once  a  handsome  youth  ? 

SITTAH. 

If  this  were  like  him,  and  'twere  not  the  knight 
Who  had  his  portrait  taken.     But,  dear  brother, 
How  could  you  ever  so  forget  yourself 
As  not  to  make  inquiry  for  his  parents  ? 

SALADIN. 

And  more  especially  about  his  mother? 
That  was  your  meaning— eh  ? 

SITTAH. 

You  are  too  quick. 


128  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.    [ ACT  IV. 

SAI.ADIN. 

But  nothing  is  more  possible  ;  for  he, 
My  brother  Assad,  was  so  favored  by 
The  Christian  ladies — handsome  Christian  ladies — 

That  a  report  once  spread But  'tis  not  right 

We  should  refer  to  that.     We'll  be  content 
That  he  is  herea^ain.  with  all  his  faults, 
The  faults  and  wildness  of  his  gentle  heart — 
That  he  is  here  again.     Oh,  Nathan  must 
Give  him  the  maid.     AVhat  think  you? 

SITTAH. 

What,  to  him? 

SALADIN. 

Ay  !  for  what  claim  has  Nathan  to  the  ;rirl 
If  he  is  not  her  father  V     11.  .  who  sav«  .1 
Her  life,  may  properly  assume  the  rights 
Of  him  who  gave  existence  to  the  mai«l. 

SITTUL 

Then  might  not  Saladin  lay  claim  to  her, 
Withdrawing  her  from  the  unrightf ul  owner  ? 

SALADIN. 

There  is  no  need  of  that. 

SITTAII. 

No  actual  need, 
But  female  curiosity  suggests 
That  counsel  to  me.    There  are  certain  men 
Of  whom  I  feel  impatient  till  I  know 
What  maidens  they  can  love. 

SALADIN. 

Well  send  for  her. 
SITTAH. 
Brother,  may  I  do  that  ? 

SALADIN. 

But  hurt  not  Nathan. 
He  must  not  think  that  we,  by  violence, 
Would  separate  them. 


SCENE  VI.]          NATHAN  THE  WISE.  129 

SITTAH. 

Fear  it  not. 

SALADIN. 

Farewell ! 
I  must  find  out  where  this  Al-Hafi  is. 


SCENE  VI. 

The  hall  in  NATHAN'S  7/o//.sv,  AW.-/'//</  tuu-anlx  the  palm- 
trees,  as  in  the  first  Act.  Part  of  the  merchandise  and 
treasures  unpacked  ami  disj>l<i//< ./. 

NATHAN  and  DAJA. 

DAJA. 

O,  how  magnificent  are  all  these  things ! 

How  rich  !  they're  such  as  none  but  you  could  give. 

Where  was  this  silver  stuff  with  spni^  of  £old 

Woven  ?    What  might  it  ct»t       Tis  what  I  call 

A  wedding  garment.     Is  there  any  queen 

Could  wish  aught  richer  ? 

NATHAN. 

Why  a  wedding  robe? 

DAJA. 

In  buying  it,  you  never  thought  of  that. 
But,  Nathan,  it  must  be  so — it  must,  indeed — 
Twas  made  for  that.     See,  here,  the  pure  white  ground, 
Emblem  of  innocence  ;  that  branching  gold, 
Covering  the  virgin  white  on  every  side, 
Emblem  of  wealth.     Say,  is  it  not  divine  ? 

NATHAN. 

Why  all  this  ingenuity  of  speech  ? 

Over  whose  wedding  dress  would  you  display 

This  learning?    Have  you  found  a  lover,  Daja  ? 

DAJA. 

What,  I? 

6* 


130  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.      [Acr  IV. 

NATHAN. 

Who,  then  ? 

DAJA. 

I,  gracious  Heaven  ? 

NATHAN. 

Who,  then  ? 

Whose  wedding  garment  would  you  speak  of,  Daja? 
All  this  is  yours,  'tis  meant  for  no  one  else. 

DAJA. 

What,  mine  I  for  me  !     1  thought  it  was  for  Recha. 

NATHAN. 

No,  what  I  bought  for  her  i-  elsewhere  packed; 
Ti-  in  another  bale.     But,  come,  away 
With  all  tins  rubbish. 

DAJA. 

Xallian.  tempt   me  not, 
For  were  these  things  the  very  c«si  lie-t 
In  all  tlu*  world,  I'll  touch  not  one  of  them 
Till  vi. u  ha\»>  sworn  to  seize  a  happy  chance 
Which  Heaven  ne'er  offers  twice. 

NATHAN. 

What  happy  chance  ? 
What  must  I  seize  ? 

DAJA 

Nathan,  fei^n  not  such  ignorance. 
But,  in  one  word— the  Templar  lov.-s  your  Recha— 
Give  her  to  him,  and  thru  your  sin.  which  I 
Can  hide  no  longer,  will  for  ever  cease. 
The  maid  will  then  once  more  resume  her  place 
Amongst  the  Christians,  will  a^ain  become 
What  she  was  born  to.  and  what  once  she  was  ; 
And  you,  whom  we  can  never  thank  enough 
For  all  your  goodness,  will  not  then  have  neaped 
More  burning  coals  of  fire  upon  your  head. 


SCENE  VIL]         NATHAN  THE  WISE.  131 

NATHAN. 

Still  harping  on  the  same  old  string  again, 
New  tuned,  but  neither  to  accord  nor  hold. 

DAJA. 
How  so  ? 

NATHAN. 

The  Templar  pleases  me  ;  'tis  true 
I'd  rather  he,  than  any  one,  had  Recha, 
But  patience. 

DAJA. 

Patience  !  and,  say,  is  not  that 
The  string  you  always  harp  on  ? 

NATHAN. 

Still,  have  patience 

But  for  a  few  days  longer.     Ha  !  who  comes  ? 
A  friar  !     Go  ask  him  what  his  errand  is. 

DAJA  (going). 
What  can  he  want  ? 

NATHAN. 

Give — give  before  he  begs. 

(Oh,  that  I  knew  how  I  could  sound  the  Knight 
Without  betraying  what  my  motive  is  ! 
For  should  I  tell  it,  and  my  thoughts  prove  false, 
I  shall  have  staked  the  father's  rights  in  vain.) 
What  is  the  matter  ? 

DAJA. 

He  would  speak  with  you. 

NATHAN. 

Let  him  approach.    Leave  us  together,  Daja. 

SCENE  VII. 
NATHAN  and  the  FRIAR. 

NATHAN. 

(Aside.    Gladly  I  would  continue  Recha's  father  ! 


132  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.     [Acr  IV. 

And  can  I  not  be  so,  though  I  may  cease 
To  bear  the  name?    To  her — at  least  to  her— 
I  should  be  father  still,  it'  she  but  knew 
How  willingly  I  bore  that  title  once.) 
What  can  I  ao  to  serve  you,  pious  brother  ? 

FRI  A,,. 

Not  much  ;  and  yet  it  gives  me  pleasure,  Nathan, 
To  see  at  least  that  you  are  still  so  well. 

NATHAN. 

You  know  me,  then,  it  seems? 

I  KIAR. 

Who  knows  you  not  ? 

You  h;i\v  impressed  your  name  en  many  a  band- 
It  has  been  stamped  on  mine  these  many  years. 

NATHAN  (feeling  for  his  purse). 
Come,  brother,  come  ;  here's  to  refresh  it. 

FRIAR. 

Thanks 

That  would  l)e  robbing  poorer  men.     I  will 
T;tkr  nothin- :  but  I  beg  of  you,  permit 
That  I  refresh  your  iiuMuory  with  my  name  ; 
For  I  can  boast  of  having  formerly 
Placed  something  in  your  hand  you  should  not  scorn. 

NATHAN. 

Excuse  me—I'm  ashamed— what  was  it  ?    Say, 
And  then  take  for  atonement  sevenfold 
The  value  of  the  thing. 

FRIAR. 

Well,  first  of  all, 

Hear  how  this  very  day  has  brought  to  mind 
The  pledge  I  gave  you. 

NATHAN. 

What !  a  pledge  to  me? 


XEVIIJ          NATHAN  THE  \\ISK. 

FRIAR. 

Not  long  ago  I  led  a  hermit's  life 

On  Quarantana,  near  to  Jericho. 

Home  Arab  thieves  came  and  attacked  my  cell ; 

They  robbed  my  oratory,  forcing  me 

To  follow  them.     But  fortune  favored  me. 

I  fled,  came  hither  to  the  Patriarch, 

And  sought  from  him  another  calm  retreat, 

Where  I  might  serve  my  God  in  solitude 

Till  death  should  bless  me. 

NATHAN. 

Ah  !     I  am  on  thorns. 
Be  quick  !     What  pledge  did  \  mi  entrust  to  me? 

FRI 

Yes,  Nathan,  presently.     Tin-  Patriarch 
Has  promised  I  shall  have  a  hermitage 
On  Tabor,  when  'tis  vacant  :  and  meanwhile 
Kmploys  me  in  this  convent  as  a  brother, 
And  here  I  am  at  present.     But  I  pine 
For  Tabor  fifty  times  a  day  ;  for  here 
He  makes  me  toil  at  work  which  I  detest. 

NATHAN. 

Be  speedy,  I  beseech  you. 

FRIAR. 

Well,  it  chanced 

Some  one  has  whispered  in  his  ear  to-day 
That  a  Jew  lives  hard  by,  who  educates 
A  Christian  as  his  daughter. 

NATHAN. 

How? 

FRIAR. 

Nay,  hear. 

He  has  commissioned  me,  if  possible, 
To  find  this  Jew  out  for  him  ;  and  he  raves 


134  I.I.SSIXG'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.     [  ACT  IV. 

Loudly  and  bitterly  against  the  crime, 

Which  he  pronounces  as  the  actual  sin 

Against  the  Holy  Ghost  —  that  is,  the  sin 

The  greatest,  which  a  sinner  can  commit. 

But  luckily  we  can't  exactly  tell 

It-  i  >at  ii  iv.     But  my  conscience  all  at  once 

Was  roused,  and  it  occurred  to  me  that  I 

Had  once,  perhaps,  been  guilty  of  this  sin. 

I  )<  »  \  ou  remember,  eighteen  years  ago, 

When  a  knight's  squire  committed  to  your  hands 

A  female  infant  but  a  few  weeks  old  ? 

NATHAN. 

What  say  you  ?    Well,  in  fact  there  was  - 

HOAR. 

Ay,  look- 
Look  well  at  me  —  for  I'm  that  squire  :  'twas  I. 

NATHAN. 

What!  you? 

i  1:1  \i:. 
And  h«-  from  \\-liMn  i  1  liroiight  the  child 

Was,  if  I  recollect   t  In-  mat  t.-r  n-ht  . 

A  Lord  of  Fiineck—  Wolf  von 


II  AN. 

Right. 


IWause  the  mother  dird  in.t  long  In-fore; 
And  he,  the  father,  was  <>!>liged  to  fly 
To  Gaza  suddenly.     The  helpless  child 
Could  not  accompany  him,  and  therefore  he 
Committed  it  to  you  :  that  was  my  task. 
I  found  you  out  at  Daran. 

NATHAN. 

Right,  quite  right. 

FRIAR. 

It  were  no  wonder  had  my  memory 
Deceived  me.    I  have  served  so  many  lords. 


SCENE  VII.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  135 

The  one  who  fled  was  not  my  master  long, 
He  fell  at  Askalon.    His  heart  was  kind. 

NATHAN. 

Yes,  yes,  and  I  have  much  to  thank  him  for. 
Not  once,  but  many  times  he  saved  my  life. 

FRIAR. 

O,  glorious  !  then  the  greater  joy  for  you 
To  educate  his  daughter. 

NATHAN. 

You  say  well. 

FRIAR. 

Where  is  she  now  ?    She  is  not  dead,  I  hope. 
Let  me  not  hear,  I  pray,  that  she  is  dead. 
If  no  one  else  have  found  the  secret  out, 
All  is  yet  safe. 

NATHAN. 

Indeed ! 

FRIAR. 

Oh,  Nathan,  trust  me. 
This  is  my  way  of  thinking  :  if  the  good 
That  I  propose  to  do  is  intertwined 
With  mischief,  then  I  let  the  good  alone  ; 
For  we  know  well  enough  what  mischief  is, 
But  not  what  is  the  best.     Twas  natural, 
If  you  intended  to  bring  up  the  child 
With  care,  that  you  should  rear  it  as  your  own. 
And  to  have  done  this  lovingly  and  well, 
And  be  thus  recompensed,  is  piteous. 
It  were  perhaps  more  prudent,  if  the  child 
Had  been  brought  up  by  some  good  Christian's  hand 
In  her  own  faith.     But  then  you  had  not  loved 
Your  dear  friend's  orphan  child  ;  and  children  need 
Love — were  it  but  the  affection  of  a  brute — 
More  at  that  age,  than  Christianity  : 
There's  always  tune  enough  for  that :  and  if 


136  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.     [Acr  IV. 

The  nuiiden  had  grown  up  before  your  eyes, 

Healthy  and  pious,  she  had  then  remained 

Tin-  same  as  ever  in  her  Maker's  eyes. 

For  is  not  Christianity  all  built 

I' I »« ,11  the  Jewish  creed  ?     Oh  oft,  too  oft, 

It  vrxes  me  and  costs  me  bitter  tears, 

To  think  that  Christians  will  so  constantly 

Forget  that  Christ  our  Saviour  was  a  Jew. 

NATHAN. 

Good  brother,  you  shall  be  my  advocate, 
AYh.-n  hate  and  bigotry  shall  frown  on  me, 
All  for  a  deed — which  you  alone  shall  hear — 
But  take  it  with  you  to  the  tomb.     As  yet 
KVn  vanity  has  never  tempted  me 
To  breathe  it  to  a  soul ;  t«>  you  alone 
]t  shall  be  told  ;  for  simple  j»i«-iy 
Like  yours  can  truly  feel  what  man  can  do 
Who  places  his  full'  confidence  in  God. 

FRIAR. 

You're  moved,  and  your  eyes  run  o'er  with  tears. 

NATHAN. 

At  Daran  'twas  you  met  me  with  the  child. 

You  had  not  heard  that,  a  few  <la 

Tin-  ( 'hristians  murdered  every  Jew  in  Gath — 

Woman  and  child.     Amongst  them  was  my  wife — 

A  Ion;;  with  her,  my  seven  hopeful  sons. 

All  had  sought  shelter 'neath  my  brother's  roof, 

And  there  were  burnt  alive. 

FRIAR. 

Just  God ! 

NATHAN. 

You  came. 

Three  nights  in  dust  and  ashes  I  had  lain 
Before  my  God  and  wept ;  and  I  at  times 
Arraigned  my  Maker,  raged,  and  cursed  myself 
And  the  whole  world  together,  and  I  swore 
Eternal  hate  to  Christianity. 


SCENE  VII.           NATHAN  THE  WISE.  137 

FRIAR. 

Who  can  condemn  you  ?    I  believe  it  well. 

NATHAN. 

But  by  degrees  returning  reason  came, 

And  spoke  with  gentle  accent :  "  God  is  just  I 

And  this  was  His  decree.     Now  exercise 

The  lesson  thou  so  long  hast  understood, 

And  which  is  suivlv  imt  moiv  (lilliciih 

To  exercise  than  well  to  understand." 

I  rose  and  cried  to  God,  4t  I  will,  I  will  ! 

Do  Thou  but  aid  my  purpose."    And,  behold, 

Just  at  that  moment  you  dismounted.    You 

Grave  me  the  child  enfolded  in  your  robe. 

The  words  we  spoke  occur  not  to  me  now. 

This  much  I  recollect:  I  took  the  child  ; 

I  bore  it  to  my  bed  ;  I  kissrd  its  check  : 

I  flung  myself  upon  my  knees,  and  sobbed, 

"  My  God,  Thou  hast  restored  me  one  of  seven  I  " 

FRIAR. 

Nathan,  you  area  Christian.     Yes,  I  swear 
You  are  a  Christian — better  never  lived. 

NATl 

Indeed  !  the  very  thing  that  makes  me  seem. 

Christian  to  you,  makes  you  a  Jew  to  me. 

But  let  us  not  distress  each  other  thus, 

Tis  time  to  act,  and  though  a  sevenfold  love 

Had  bound  me  to  this  strange,  this  lovely  maid, 

Though  the  mere  thought  distracts  me,  that  in  her 

I  lose  my  seven  dear  sons  a  second  time, 

If  Providence  require  her  at  my  hands 

I'm  ready  to  obey. 

FRI 

Tis  well !     And  thus 

I  thought  to  counsel  you ;  but  there's  no  need  : 
Your  own  good  genius  lias  fort -stalled  my  words. 

NATHAN. 

The  first  chance  claimant  must  not  tear  her  hence. 


138  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.     [ACT  IV. 

FRIAR. 

Most  surely  not. 

NATHAN. 

And  he  who  has  no  claim 
Stronger  than  mine — at  least  he  ought  to  have 
Those  prior  claims  which — 

FRIAR. 

Certainly. 

NATH  \\. 

Those  claims 
Which  are  derived  from  nature  and  from  blood. 

i  KIAR. 
In  my  opinion. 

NATHAN. 

Thru  name  the  man 
As  brother,  or  as  uncle,  Unuid  to  h.-r. 
I'll  not  withhold  her  from  him  :  she  was  made 
To  be  the  ornament  of  any  house, 
The  pride  of  any  faith.     I  hope  you  know 
More  of  your  master  and  his  creed  than  I. 

FRIAR. 

On  that  point,  Nathan.  I'm  hut  ill  informed, 
1  havf  already  told  you  t  hat  I  spent 
Only  some  moments  with  him. 

NATHAN. 

Can  you  tell 

The  mother's  name,  at  least  ?    She  was,  I  think, 
A  Stauff en  ? 

FRIAR. 
Possibly;   nay.  mon — you're  right. 

NATHAN. 

Conrad  of  Stauffen  was  her  brother's  name. 
He  was  a  Templar. 

FRIAR. 
Yes,  I  think  he  was  : 


SCENE  VIII.]       NATHAN  THE  WISE.  139 

But  hold.  I  have  a  book  that  was  my  lord's. 
I  drew  it  from  his  bosom  when  he  lay 
Dead,  and  we  buried  him  at  Askalon. 

NATHAN. 
Well  ! 

FRIAK. 

There  are  j>ra\rr>  in  it  :  'tis  what  we  call 
A  breviary.     This,  thought  1.  \vt  may  serve 
Some  Christian  man — not  me,  forsooth — for  I 
Can't  read  a  word. 

NATHAN. 

No  matter — to  the  point. 

FKIAK. 

The  pages  of  this  book  an-  written  all 

In  his  own  hand,  and.  as  I'm  told,  contain 

All  that's  important  toucliin.i;  him  and  her. 

NATHAN. 

Go,  run  and  fetch  the  book  :  'tis  fortunate  ! 

I'll  pay  you  for  it  with  its  weight  in  gold. 

And  with  a  thousand  thanks  besides.     Go  !  run  ! 

FRIAR. 
I  go — but  what  he  wrote  is  Arabic.  (Exit.) 

NATHAN. 

No  matter,  fetch  it.     What,  if  from  this  book 
I  can  iin.i  means  to  keep  this  precious  girl, 
And  win,  to  boot,  a  son-in-law  like  him  ! 
I  hardly  hope— fate  must  decide.     But  who 
Has  told  the  Patriarch  this  ?    I  must  not  fail 
To  ascertain.     It  surely  was  not  Daja  ? 


SCENE  VIII. 
DAJA  <n,d  NATHAN. 
DAJA  (rushing  in  in  agitation). 
Only  think,  Nathan ! 


140  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.     [Acx  IV. 

NATHAN. 

What  ? 

DAJA. 

Well— only  think : 
The  child  was  frightened  when  the  message  came ! 

NATHAN. 

From  whom  ?    The  Patriarch  ? 

DAJA. 

The  Sultan's  sister, 
The  Princess  Sittah— 

NATHAN, 

Not  the  Patriarch  ? 

DAJA. 

No,  Sittah.    Can't  you  hear  ?    Th<>  Princess  sends, 
And  wishes  Recha  to  be  brought  to  her. 

NATHAN. 

Wishes  for  Recha !    Sittah  wishes  thus? 
Tis  Sittah,  then — and  not  the  Patriarch? 

DAJA. 

Why  do  you  speak  of  him  ? 

NATHAN. 

Have  you  not  heard 

Some  tidings  of  him  lately  ?    Have  you  seen 
Nothing  of  him,  and  whispered  nothing  to  him  ? 

DAJA. 
How  could  I  so  ? 

NATHAN. 

Where  are  the  messengers  ? 

DAJA. 
They  stand  without. 


SCENE  I.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  141 

NATHAN. 

I'll  speak  to  them  myself — 
Tis  prudent ;  I  shall  see  if  nothing  lurks 
Behind  this  message,  from  the  Patriarch.  (Exit.) 

DAJA. 

Well,  I  have  other  fears.     The  only  child, 
As  they  suppose,  of  such  a  wealthy  Jew, 
Would  for  a  Mussulman  be  no  bad  thing. 
I'll  wager  that  the  Templar  loses  her, 
Unless  I  risk  a  second  step,  and  state 
Plainly  to  Recha  who  she  is.     So,  courage  ! 
And  to  do  this  I  must  at  once  employ 
The  first  brief  moments  when  we  are  alone. 
Chance  serves  :  she  waits  for  me,  and  on  the  way 
An  earnest  hint  will  never  prove  amiss. 
So  now  or  never.     All  will  soon  be  well. 

(Follows  Nathan.) 


ACT  V. 

SCENE  I.— The  room  in  SALADIN'S  Palace.    The  treasure 

still  jtili'il  up. 

(SALADIN,  and  several  Mamelukes.) 
SALADIN  (as  he  enters). 

There  lies  the  gold— and  no  one  yet  has  seen 
The  Dervise.     He  will  probably  be  found 
Over  the  chess-board.     Play  can  often  make 
A  man  forget  himself.     Then  why  not  me  ? 
But  patience.     What's  the  matter  ? 

1ST  MAMELUKE. 

Oh,  good  news ! 
Joy,  Sultan  !  joy.    The  Cairo  caravan 


142  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.      [ACT  V. 

Is  safe  arrived,  and  from  the  Nile  it  brings 
The  seven  years'  tribute. 

SALADIN. 

Bravo,  Ibrahim  ! 

You  always  were  a  welcome  messenger, 
And  now  at  length — accept  my  heartfelt  thanks 
For  the  good  tidings. 

IST  MAMELUKE  (waiting). 

(Let  me  have  them,  then  !) 

SALADIN. 
What  are  you  waiting  for  ?    Go. 

1ST  MAMELUK 

Nothing  more 
For  my  good  news  ? 

SALAMN. 

What  further? 

1ST  MAMELUKE. 

Messengers 

Of  good  are  paid.     Am  I  to  be  the  HIM 
Whom  Salad  in  has  learnt  to  pay  with  words? 
The  first  to  whom  be  proves  ungenerous  ? 

SALADIN. 

Go,  take  a  purse. 

1ST  MAMl.I.rKE. 

No,  no — not  now.    Not  if 
You'd  give  them  all  to  inc. 

SALADIN. 

All  ?    Hold,  young  man  ! 

Come  hither.     Take  these  purses— take  these  two. 
What,  going?    And  shall  I  be  conquered  thus 
In  generosity  ?  for  surely  'tis 
More  difficult  for  this  man  to  refuse 
Than  for  the  Sultan  to  bestow.    Then,  nere, 


SCENE  I.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  143 

Here,  Ibrahim  !    Shall  I  be  tempted,  just 
Before  my  death,  to  be  a  different  man  ? 
Shall  Saladin  not  die  like  Saladin  V 
Then  wherefore  has  he  lived  like  Saladin  ? 

(Enter  a  second  Mameluke .) 

V?NI)    MAMELUKE. 

Hail,  Sultan  ! 

SALADIN. 

If  you  come  and  bring  the  newo 

JND  MAMELUKE. 

That  the  Egyptian  convoy  is  arrived. 

SALADIN. 

I  know  it. 

2ND  MAM!  LUKE. 

Then  I  come  t<><»  lat»-. 

SALADIN. 

Too  late  ? 

Wherefore  too  late  ?    There,  for  your  tidings  take 
A  purse  or  two. 

2ND  MAMELUKE. 

Say  three. 

SALADIN. 

You  reckon  well ; 
But  take  them. 

V?ND  MAMELUKE. 

A  third  messenger  will  come 
Ere  long,  if  he  be  able. 

SALADIN. 
Wherefore  so  ? 

2ND  MAMELUKE. 

He  may  perhaps,  ere  this,  have  brok'n  his  neck. 
We  three,  when  we  had  heard  of  the  approach 


144  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC   \VuKKS.      [ACT  V. 

Of  the  rich  caravan,  mounted  our  steeds, 
And  galloped  hitherward.     T lie  foremost  fell, 
Then  I  was  first,  and  I  continued  so 
Into  the  town  ;  but  that  sly  fellow  there, 
Who  knew  the  streets 

SALADIN. 

But  where  is  he  who  fell? 
Go  seek  him  out. 

2ND  MAMKLfKK. 
That  1  will  quickly  do, 
And  if  he  lives,  one  half  of  this  is  his.  (Exit.) 

SALADIN. 

Oh,  what  a  noble  fellow  !  who  can  boast 

Such  Mamelukes  as  these  ?     And  may  I  not, 

Without  conceit,  inia.Lrinr   that    my  lifV 

Has  helped  to  mak<>  tin -in  so?    A  vaunt  the  thought ! 

That  I  should  ever  teach  them  otherwise. 

3RD  MAMELUKK. 

Sultan  ! 

SALADIN. 

Are  you  the  man  who  fell? 

3RD  MAMELUKE. 

No,  Sire. 

I  have  to  tell  you  that  the  Emir  Mansor, 
Who  led  the  caravan,  is  just  arrived. 

SALADIN. 

Then  bring  him  quickly. — There  he  is  already. 


SCENE  II. 
The  Emir  MANSOR  and  SALADIN. 

SALADIN. 

Emir,  you're  welcome  !    What  has  happened  to  you, 
Mansor  ?  we  have  expected  you  for  long. 


SCENE  III.]          NATHAN  THE  WISE.  145 

MANSOR. 

This  letter  will  explain  how,  in  Thebais, 
Some  discontents  required  the  sabred  hand 
Of  Abulkassen.     But,  since  then,  our  march 
Has  been  pressed  forward. 

SALADIN. 

I  believe  it  all. 

But  take,  good  Mansor — take,  without  delay, 
Another  escort  if  you  will  proceed. 
And  take  the  treasure  on  to  Lebanon  : 
The  greater  part  is  destined  for  my  father. 

MANSOR. 

Most  willingly. 

SALADIN. 

And  let  your  escort  be 
A  strong  and  trusty  one,  for  Lebanon 
Is  far  from  quiet,  and  the  Templars  there 
Are  on  the  stir  again  :  be  cautious,  then. 
Come,  I  must  see  your  troop,  and  order  all. 
(To  a  slave.)     Say  I  shall  presently  return  to  Sittah. 


SCENE  III. 

(Tfie  palm-trees  before  NATHAN'S  tuwse.) 
The  TEMPLAR,  walking  up  and  down. 

TEMPLAR. 

Into  this  house  I  never  enter  more  : 
He'll  come  to  me  at  last.     Yet,  formerly. 
They  used  to  watch  for  me  with  longing  eyes  ; 

And  now The  time  may  come  he'll  send  to  beg, 

Most  civilly,  that  I  will  get  me  hence, 
And  not  pace  up  and  down  Before  his  door! 
No  matter  :  though  I  feel  a  little  hurt. 
I  know  not  what  has  thus  embittered  me  : 
He  answered  yes,  and  has  refused  me  naught, 
7 


I46  LKSSIXCi'S   DRAMATIC   WORKS.       [ACT  V. 

So  far,  and  Saladin  has  pledged  himself 

To  bring  him  round.     Say.  does  the  Christian  live 

Deeper  in  me  than  the  Jew  lurks  in  him? 

Ah  !  who  can  truly  estimate  himself? 

How  comes  it  else  that  I  should  Drudge  him  so 

The  triflinjr  bootv,  which  he  took  such  pains 

To  rob  the  Christians  of?     No  trifling  theft! 

No  less  than  such  a  creature  !      And  to  whom 

she  helon^  V     Oh,  surely  not  to  him, 
The  thoughtless  slave,  who  floated  the  mere  block 
On  to  life's  barren  strand,  then  disappeared. 
Uather  to  him.  the  artist,  whose  tint- soul 
Has  t' com  the  block  moulded  this  godlike  form, 
And  -I  a  veil  it  there.     And  yet  in  spite  of  him, 
The  ( 'hrist  ian.   ,who  begnt  this  beauteous  maid, 
K'ccha's  tin.-  I'atlier  niu-t   be  still    the  .lew. 
\\  .  if  I  t"  1'aucy  her  a  Christian  now, 
Bereft  of  all  the  ,Iew  has^iven  to  her — 
Whicli  only  such  a  .!«  \\   could  have   bestowed — 
Speak    out.     my    heart  —  where     would     have    been    her 

charm  '.' 

It  had  been  u<  »t  hing— lit  t  le  ;   then  her  smile 
Had  been  a  pretty  t  \\  ist  in«j  of  the  mout  h 
And  that  which  caused  it   were  un  wort  hy  deemed 
( )f  tiie  enchantment  blooming  on  her  lips. 
No  :   not  her  very  smile  !     I've  seen  sweet  smiles 
Squandered  on  pride,  on  foppery,  on  lies, 
On  flatterers,  on  wicked  wooers  spent: 
And  did  they  charm  me  then?     Did  they  awake 
The  wish  to  flutter  out  existence  in 
Their  sunshine?      And  I'm  an^ry  now  with  him 
Who  i^ave  tin's  higher  value  to  the  maid  ''. 
And  wherefore  so?     Do  I  deserve  the  taunt 
With  which  T  was  dismissed   by  Saladin? 
Twas  bad  enough  lie  should  think  thus  of  me. 
How  wicked,  how  contemptible,  alas! 
1  must  have  seemed  to  him  !     And  for  a  ^irl  ! 
Conrad,  this  will  not  do.     A  vaunt  such  thoughts! 
And  what  if  Daja  has  been  chattering 
Of  things  not  easy  to  be  proved  ?    But  see, 
He  comes,  engaged  in  converse  ;  and  with  whom  ? 


SCENE  IV.]  NATHAN  TIIK  \VISI,  147 

With  him,  the  Friar.     Tlien  he  knows  all :  perhaps 
He  has  betrayed  him  to  the  Patriarch. 
O  Conrad  !  what  vile  mischief  hast  thoti  done  ! 
O  !  that  one  spark  of  love,  that  wayward  passion, 
Should  so  inflame  the  brain  !     But,  quick  !  resolve  ; 
What's  to  be  done?    Stay,  step  asidf  awhile  ; 
Perhaps  the  Friar  will  leave  him.     Let  us  see. 


SCENE  IV. 

NATHAN  and  the  FRIAR. 
NATHAN  (approaching  him). 
Good  brother,  once  more,  thanks. 

FRIAK. 

The  same  to  you. 

NATHAN. 

Why  thanks  from  you  ?     Because  I'm  wayward,  and 
Would  force  upon  you  what  you  cannot  use  ? 

FRIAR. 

The  book  you  have  did  not  belong  to  me. 
It  is  the  maid's,  is  all  her  property. 
Her  only  patrimony — save  yourself. 
God  grant  you  ne'er  have  reason  to  repent 
Of  what  you've  done  for  her  ! 

NATHAN. 

Impossible ! 
That  cannot  be.    Fear  not. 

FRIAR. 

Alas !  alas ! 
These  Patriarchs  and  Templars 

NATHAN. 

Cannot  work 
Such  evil  as  to  force  me  to  repent. 


I48  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS       [Aci  V. 

But  are  you  sure  it  is  a  Templar  who 
Urges  the  Patriarch  ? 

FRIAR. 

It  is  none  else  ; 

A  Templar  talked  with  him  just  now,  and  all 
I  hear  confirms  the  rumor. 

NATHAN. 

But  there  is 

Only  one  Templar  in  Jerusalem, 
And  him  I  know.     He  is  a  friend  of  mine, 
A  noble,  open-hearted  youth. 

FRIAR. 

The  same. 

But  what  one  is  at  heart,  and  what  one  must 
Appear  in  active  life,  are  not  the  same. 

NATHAN. 

Alas  !  'tis  true.     And  so  let  every  one 
Act  as  he  will,  and  d<>  his  best,  or  worst. 
With  your  hook,  brother,  I  defy  them  all! 
I'm  going  straightway  with  it  to  the  Sultan. 

I'KIAR. 

Then  God  be  with  you !     Here  I  take  my  leave. 

NATHAN. 

What !  without  seeing  her  ?    But  come  again, 
Come  soon — come  often,     If  the  Patriarch 
To-day  learns  nothing.     Well  !  no  matter  now  ! 
Tell  him  the  whole  to-day,  or  when  you  will. 

FRIAR. 
Not  I.     Farewell !  (Exit.) 

NATHAN. 

Do  not  forget  us,  brother  ! 
O  God  !  I  could  sink  down  upon  my  knees, 
Here  on  this  spot !     Behold,  the  knotted  skein 
Which  has  so  often  troubled  me,  at  last 


SCENE  V.]  NATHAX  TIIK  WISE.  149 

Untangles  of  itself.     I  feel  at  ease, 

Since  henceforth  nothing  in  this  world  remains 

That  I  need  hide.     Henceforth,  I  am  as  free 

Before  mankind,  as  in  the  sight  of  God. 

Who  only  does  not  need  to  judge  us  men 

By  deeds,  which  oftentimes  are  not  our  own. 


SCENE  V. 

NATHAN  and  the  TEMPLAR. 
(The  latter  advancing  towards  him  from  the  side.) 

TEMPLAR. 

Hold,  Nathan,  hold  !    Take  me  along  with  you. 

NATHAN. 

Who  calls  ?    You,  Templar  !    Where  can  you  have  beeu 
That  you  could  not  be  met  with  at  the  Sultan's? 

TEMPLAR. 

We  missed  each  other  ;  do  not  be  displeased. 

NATHAN. 

Not  I,  but  Saladin. 

TEMPLAR. 

You  had  just  gone. 

NATHAN. 

Oh,  then,  you  spoke  with  him.    I'm  satisfied. 

TEMPLAR. 

Yes  ;  but  he  wants  to  talk  with  us  together. 

NATHAN. 

So  much  the  better.     Come  with  me  ;  I  go 
Direct  to  him. 

TEMPLAR. 

Say,  Nathan,  may  I  ask 
Who  left  you  even  now  ? 

7* 


150  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.      [ACT  V. 

NATHAN. 

What !  don't  you  know  ? 

TEMPLAR. 

Was  it  that  worthy  fellow,  the  good  friar, 
Whom  the  old  Patriarch  employs  at  will 
To  work  his  ends  ? 

NATHAN. 

The  same — the  very  same. 

TEMPLAR. 

Tis  a  prime  hit  to  make  simplicity 
The  workman  of  deceit. 

NATHAN. 

Yes,  if  he  use 
The  fool,  and  not  the  pious  man. 

TEMPLAR. 

This  last 
The  Patriarch  ne'er  trusts. 

NATHAN. 

Depend  on  this, 

That  man  will  not  assist  the  Patriarch 
To  a  wicked  end. 

TEMPLAR. 

Well,  so  I  think  myself. 
But  has  he  told  you  aught  of  me  ? 

NATHAN. 

Of  you? 
He  scarcely  knows  your  name. 

TEMPLAR. 

That's  like  enough* 

NATHAN. 

He  spoke  to  me  about  a  Templar,  who — 

TEMPLAR. 

Who  what? 


SCENE  V.  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  15! 

NATHAN. 

But  then  he  never  mentioned  you.  " 

TEMPLAR. 

Who  knows?    Come  tell  me,  Nathan,  all  he  said. 

NATHAN. 

Who  has  accused  me  to  the  Patriarch  ? 

TKMPLAR. 

Accused  you  !    With  his  leave,  that  is  untrue. 

No  !    Hear  me,  Nathan  !     I  am  not  the  man 

E'er  to  deny  my  actions.     What  I've  done 

I've  done — and  there's  an  end.     Nor  am  I  one 

Who  would  maintain  that  all  I've  done  is  right. 

But  should  one  fault  condemn  me  ?    Am  I  not 

Resolved  on  better  deeds  for  time  to  come  ? 

And  who  is  ignorant  how  much  the  man 

Who  wills  it  may  improve?    Then  hear  me,  Nathan  : 

I  am  the  Templar  talked  of  by  the  Friar, 

Who  has  accused — you  know  what  maddened  me, 

What  set  my  blood  on  fire  within  my  veins — 

Fool  that  I  was  !   I  had  almost  resolved 

To  fling  myself  both  soul  and  body,  straight 

Into  your  arms.     But  how  was  I  received  ': 

How  did  you  meet  me.  Nathan?     Cold — or  worse. 

Lukewarm — far  worse  than  cold.     With  cautious  words, 

Well  weighed  and  measured,  Nathan,  you  took  care 

To  put  me  off,  and  with  calm  questions*,  asked 

About  my  parentage,  and  God  knows  what, 

You  sought  to  meet  my  suit.     I  cannot  now 

Dwell  on  it  and  be  patient.     Hear  me  further. 

While  in  this  ferment,  Daja  suddenly 

Drew  near  to  me  and  whispered  in  my  ear 

A  secret  which  cleared  up  the  mystery. 

NATHAN. 

What  was  it  ? 

TEMPLAR. 

Hear  me  to  the  end.     I  thought 
The  treasure  you  had  from  the  Christians  stolen, 


152  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.      [ACT  V. 

You  would  not  promptly  to  a  Christian  yield  ; 
And  so  the  project  struck  me,  with  good  speed, 
To  bring  you  to  extremities. 

NATHAN. 

Good  speed  ? 
Good,  good?  pray  where's  the  good  ! 

TEMPLAR. 

But  hear  me  out. 

I  own  my  error  ;  you  are  free  from  guilt ; 
That  prating  Daja  knows  not  what  she  says. 
She's  hostile  to  you,  and  she  seeks  to  twine 
A  dangerous  snare  around  you.     Be  it  so. 
I'm  but  a  crazed  enthusiast,  doubly  mad, 
Aiming  at  far  too  much,  or  much  too  little. 
That  may  be  also  true.     Forgive  me,  Nathan. 

NATHAN. 

If  you  conceive  thus  of  me 

TEMPLAR. 

Well,  in  short. 

I  saw  tin*  Patriarch — but  named  you  not. 
T\vas  t'alsr  to  >;ty  so,  for  I  only  told 
The  c;is<>  in  general  terms,  to  sound  his  mind. 
And  that  I  also  mi^lit  have  left  undone, 
For  knew  1  not  tin-  Patriarch  to  be 
An  arrant,  subtle  knave?     And  might  I  not 
As  well  have  told  you  all  the  case  at  first? 
Or  was  it  right  in  me  to  risk  the  loss 
Of  such  a  father  to  the  hapless  maid  ? 
But  what  has  happened  now  ?    The  Patriarch, 
Ever  consistent  in  his  villainy, 
Has  all  at  once  restored  me  to  myself. 
For  hear  me,  Nathan,  hear  me  !    Were  he  now 
To  learn  your  name,  what  more  could  then  occur  ? 
He  cannot  seize  the  maid,  if  sbe  belong 
To  some  one  else,  and  not  to  you  alone. 
Tis  from  your  house  alone  she  can  be  dragged 
Into  a  convent :  grant  her,  then,  I  pray, 


.K  V.  NATHAN  Till;   WISK. 

Grant  her  to  me  !    Then  come  the  Patriarch  ! 
He'll  hardly  dare  to  take  my  wife  from  me. 
Oh  !  give  her  to  me.     Be  she  yours  or  not — 
Your  daughter — Christian — Jewess — 't  is  all  one— 
<  >r  be  she  nothing — I  will  ne'er  inquire, 
Or  in  my  lifetime  ask  you  what  she  is, 
Tis  all  alike  tome. 

NATHAN. 

DC  you  then  think 
That  t<>  conceal  the  truth  1  am  compelled? 

TEMPLAR. 

No  matter. 

NATHAN. 

I  have  ne'er  denied  the  truth 
To  you,  or  any  one  whom  it  concern*'.  I 

To  know  the  fact,  that  she's  of  Christian  birth, 
Ami  that  tin-  maid  is  my  adopted  child. 
Why  I  have  not  informed  her  «.f  the  truth, 
I  need  explain  to  none  but  to  her^-lf. 

Ti.MPLAR. 

Nathan  :  no  nt-ed  of  that,  it  were  not  well 
That  she  should  see  you  in  a  different  light ; 
Then  spare  her  the  discovery.      A-  jrel 
Site's  yours  alone — no  other's—  to  bestow. 
Then  <;rant   her  to  me,  Nathan.  I  implore — 
Grant  her  to  me  :  I  only.  1  alone, 
Can  rescue  her  a  second  time — and  will. 

NATHAN. 

Yes,  you  could  once  have  saved  her,  but  alas ! 
Tis  now  too  late. 

TEMPLAR. 

Too  late  !  ah  !  say  not  so. 

NATHAN. 

Thanks  to  the  Patriarch. 


'53 


154  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC   WORKS.      [ACT  V, 

TEMPLAR. 

Why,  thanks  to  him? 
Why  should  we  thank  the  Patriarch  !     For  what  ? 

NATHAN. 

Tlmt  now  we  know  her  relatives,  and  know 
Into  whose  hands  Recha  may  be  restored. 

TEMPLAR. 

Let  him  give  thanks  \vlio  shall  have  better  cause 
To  thank  him. 

NATHAN. 

But  you  must  receive  her  now 
From  other  hands  than  mim>. 

TEMPLAR. 

Alas,  poor  maid ! 

0  hapless  Reel i a  .'  what  has  chanced  to  thee. 
That  what  to  other  orphans  had  appeared 

A  real  blessing,  is  to  thee  a  curse  ! 

But,  Nathan,  where  are  these  new  relatives? 

NATHAN. 

Where  are  they  ? 

TEMPLAR. 

Ay,  both  where  and  who  are  they  ? 

NATHAN. 

Her  brother  is  discovered,  and  to  him 
You  must  address  yourself. 

TEMPLAR. 

Her  brother !    Ha  ! 
And  what  is  he — a  soldier  or  a  priest  ? 
Tell  me  at  once  what  I've  to  hope  from  him. 

NATHAN. 

1  hear  he's  neither — or  lie's  both.     As  yet 
I  do  not  know  him  thoroughly. 


SCENE  V.  NATHAN  THK  WISE.  155 

TEMPLAR. 

What  more  ? 

NATHAN. 

He  is  a  gallant  fellow,  and  with  him 
Recha  may  be  content. 

TEMPLAR. 

But  he's  a  Christian. 

At  times  I  know  not  what  to  make  of  you. 
Take  it  not  ill,  good  Nathan,  that  la- 
Must  she  not  henceforth  play  the  Christian, 
Associate  with  Christians,  ami  at   last 
Become  the  character  she  long  has  played  ? 
Will  not  the  tan-s  at  length  *jrow  up  and  choke 
The  pure  wheat  you  have  sown?    And  does  not  that 
AUVrt  you?    Yet  you  say  she'll  be  content 
When  with  her  l»n>llier. 

NATHAN. 

As  I  think  and  hope. 

For  should  she  e'er  have  need  of  anything, 
Has  she  not  you  and  me  ? 

TEMPLAR. 

AVhat  can  she  need 

\7hen  with  her  brother.     Gladly  he'll  provide 
His  dear  new  sister  with  a  thousand  robes, 
With  dainties,  and  with  toys  and  finery. 
And  what  could  any  sister  wish  for  more — 
Unless,  perhaps,  a  husband  ?    And  him  too, 
Him  too  the  brother,  in  due  time,  will  find  ; 
And  the  more  Christian  he,  the  better  !— Nathan, 
How  sad  to  think  the  angel  you  have  formed, 
Should  now  be  marred  by  others  ! 

NATHAN. 

Be  assured 
He'll  always  prove  deserving  of  our  love. 

TEMPLAR. 

Nay  speak  not  so ;  of  my  love,  speak  not  so, 


156  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC   WORKS.      [Acx  V 

For  it  can  brook  no  loss,  however  small, 

Not  e'en  a  name.     But,  hold  !     Has  she  as  yet 

Any  suspicion  of  these  late  events  ? 

NATHAN. 

Tis  possible,  and  yet  I  know  not  how. 

TEMPLAR. 

It  matters  not ;  she  must,  in  either  case, 
First  learn  from  me  what  fate  is  threatening  her. 
My  purpose  not  to  speak  with  her  again. 
Ana  ne  er  to  see  her  more,  till  I  should  rail 
Your  Recha  mine,  is  gone.     I  take  my  leave. 

NATHAN. 

Nay,  whither  would  you  go? 

TF.M1M.AR. 

At  once  to  her, 

To  learn  if  slip  ln»  bold  «>nou^h  at  heart, 
To  fix  upon  the  only  roui-M*  that  now 
Is  worthy  of  her. 

NATHAN. 

Name  it. 

TI  MPLAR. 

It  is  this: 

That  henceforth  she  should  never  rare  to  know 
Aught  of  her  brother  or  of  you. 

NATHAN. 

What  more? 

TEMPI. AH. 

To  follow  me — even  if  it  were  her  fate 
To  wed  a  Mussulman. 

NATHAN. 

Stay,  Templar,  stay ! 

You  will  not  find  her.     She's  with  Sittah  now, 
The  Sultan's  sister. 


SCENE  VI.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  157 

TEMPLAR. 

Wherefore,  and  since  when  ? 

NATHAN. 

If  you  desire  to  see  her  brother,  come, 
Follow  me  straight. 

TEMPLAR. 

Her  brother,  say  you  ?    Whose  ? 
Recha's,  or  Sittah's  ? 

NATHAN. 

Both— ay,  both,  perhaps. 
But  come  this  way,  I  pray  you.     Come  with  me. 

(NATHAN  leads  the  TEMPLAR  away.) 

SCENE  VI.— SITTAH'S  harem. 
SITTAH  and  RECHA  engaged  in  conversation. 

SITTAH. 

How  I  am  pleased  with  you,  sweet  girl.     But,  come, 
Shake  off  theSe  fears,  and  be  no  more  alarmed, 
Be  happy,  cheerful.     Let  me  hear  you  talk. 

RECHA, 
Princess ! 

SITTAH. 

Nay,  child,  not  princess  !    Call  me  friend, 
Or  Sittah — or  your  sister — or  dear  mother, 
For  I  might  well  be  so  to  you — so  good, 
So  prudent,  and  so  young  !     How  much  you  know, 
How  much  you  must  have  read  ! 

RECHA. 

Read,  Sittah  !  now 
You're  mocking  me,  for  I  can  scarcely  read. 


SITTAH, 

Scarce  read,  you  young  deceiver ! 
8 


158  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.       [Acr  V, 

RECHA. 

Yes,  perhaps 
My  father's  hand  ;  I  thought  you  spoke  of  books. 

SITTAH. 

And  so  I  did — of  books. 

RECHA. 

They  puzzle  me 
To  read. 

SITTAH. 

Indeed ! 

RECHA. 

I  speak,  in  veriest  truth. 

My  father  hates  book-learning,  which  he  says, 
Makes  an  impression  only  on  the  brain 
With  lifeless  letters. 

SITTAH. 

Well,  he's  right  in  that. 
And  so  the  greater  part  of  what  you  know 

RECHA. 

I've  learnt  from  his  own  mouth,  and  I  can  tell 
The  when,  the  where,  and  why  he  taught  it  me. 

SITTAH. 

So  it  clings  closer,  and  the  soul  drinks  in 
The  full  instruction. 

RECHA. 

Yes,  and  Sittah,  too, 
Has  not  read  much. 

SITTAH. 

How  so  ?    I  am  not  vain 
Of  having  read,  and  yet  why  say  you  so  ? 
Speak  boldly.    Tell  the  reason. 

RECHA. 

She's  so  plain- 
So  free  from  artifice — so  like  herself. 

SITTAH. 

Wellt 


SCENE  VI.]          NATHAN  THE  WISE.  159 

RECHA. 

And  my  father  says  'tis  rarely  books 
Work  that  effect. 

SITTAH. 

Oh,  what  a  man  he  is, 
Dear  Recha ! 

RECHA. 

Is  he  not  ? 

SITTAH. 

He  never  fails 

To  hit  the  mark. 

RECHA. 

Yes,  yes  ;  and  yet  this  father 

SITTAH. 

What  ails  you,  love  ? 

RECHA. 

This  father 

SITTAH. 

Oh  my  God  I 

You're  weeping. 

RECHA. 

And  this  father— it  must  forth—- 
My heart  wants  room,  wants  room 

(Throws  herself  in  tears  at  SITTAH  s  feet.) 

SITTAH. 

What  ails  you,  Recha  ? 

RECHA. 

Yes,  I  must  lose  this  father  ! 

SITTAH. 

Lose  him— never ! 
Why  so  ?    Be  calm.     Courage  !  it  must  not  be. 

RECHA. 

Your  offer  to  be  friend  and  sister  to  me 
Will  now  not  be  in  vain. 


i6o  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.      [ACT  V. 

SITTAH. 

Yes,  I  am  both. 
Arise,  arise,  or  I  must  call  for  help. 

RECHA. 

O  pardon  !  I  forget,  through  agony, 

With  whom  I  speak.     Tears,  sobbing  and  despair 

Are  naught  with  Sittah.     Reason,  calm  and  cool, 

Is  over  her  alone  omnipotent. 

No  other  argument  avails  with  her. 

SITTAH. 
Well,  then? 

RECHA. 

My  friend  and  sister,  suffer  not 
Another  father  to  be  forced  on  me. 

SITTAH. 

Another  father  to  be  forced  on  you  ! 
Who  can  do  that,  or  wish  to  do  it,  love? 

RECHA. 

Who  but  my  good,  my  evil  genius,  Daja? 
She  can  both  wish  it  and  perform  the  deed. 
You  do  not  know  this  good,  tliis  evil  Daja. 
May  God  forgive  her,  and  reward  her,  too, 
For  she  has  done  me  good  and  evil,  both. 

SITTAH. 

Evil  ?    Then  she  has  little  goodness  left. 

RECHA. 

Oh,  she  has  much. 

SITTAH. 

Who  is  she  ? 

RECHA. 

Who  ?  a  Christian, 

Who  cared  for  me  in  childhood's  early  years. 
You  cannot  know  how  little  she  allowed 
That  I  should  miss  a  mother's  tender  cares— 


,-gCENE  VI.]  NATHAN  THE  WISE.  l6l 

May  God  reward  her  for  it ! — but  she  has 
Worried  and  tortured  me. 

SITTAH. 

Wherefore,  and  how  ? 

RECHA. 

Poor  woman,  she's  a  Christian,  and  from  love 
Has  tortured  me  :  a  warm  enthusiast, 
Who  thinks  she  only  knows  the  real  road 
That  leads  to  God. 

SITTAH. 
I  understand  you  now. 

RECHA. 

And  one  of  those  who  feel  in  duty  bound 

To  point  it  out  to  every  one  who  strays 

From  the  plain  path,  to  lead,  to  drag  them  in. 

And  who  can  censure  them  ?  for  if  the  road 

They  travel  is  the  only  one  that's  s,it«  , 

They  cannot,  without  pain,  behold  their  friends 

Pursue  a  path  that  leads  to  endless  woe, 

Else,  at  the  self-same  time,  'twere  possible 

To  love  and  hat«*  another.     Nor  does  this 

Alona  compel  me  to  complain  aloud. 

Her  groans,  her  prayers,  her  warnings,  and  her  threats 

I  could  have  borne  much  longer  willingly. 

They  always  called  up  good  and  wholesome  thoughts. 

Who  is  not  flattered  to  be  held  so  dear, 

And  precious  by  another,  that  the  thought 

Of  parting  pierces  him  with  lasting  pain? 

SITTAH. 
This  is  most  true. 

RECHA. 

And  yet  this  goes  too  far, 
And  I  have  nothing  to  oppose  to  it — 
Patience,  reflection,  nothing. 


8» 


SITTAH. 

How?  to  what? 


162  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.       [Acr  V. 

RECHA. 

To  what  she  has  disclosed  to  me. 

SITTAH. 

Say,  when? 

RECHA. 

Tis  scarce  an  instant.     Coming  hither 
We  passed  a  Christian  temple  on  our  way  ; 
She  all  at  once  stood  still,  seemed  inly  moved, 
Raised  her  moist  eyes  to  heaven,  then  looked  on  me. 
44  Come, "  she  exclaimed  at  length,  "  come  straight  on 

here, 

Through  this  old  fane/'    She  leads,  I  follow  her. 
My  eyes  with  horror  overrun  the  dim 
And  tottering  ruin  :  all  at  once  she  stops 
By  a  low  ruined  altar's  sunken  steps. 
O,  how  I  felt,  when  there,  with  streaming  eyes 
And  wringing  hands,  down  at  my  feet  she  fell ! 

SITTAH. 
Good  child  ! 

RECHA. 

And,  by  the  Holy  Virgin,  who  had  heard 
So  many  suppliants'  prayers,  and  had  performed 
Full  many  a  wonder  there,  she  begged,  implored 
With  looks  of  heart-felt  sympathy  and  love, 
That  I  would  now  take  pity  on   myself, 
And  pardon  her  for  daring  to  unfold 
Th»*  nature  of  the  Church's  claims  on  me. 

SITTAH. 

I  guessed  as  much. 

RECHA. 

I'm  born  of  Christian  blood, 
Have  been  baptized,  and  am  not  Nathan's  child  ! 
Nathan  is  not  my  father  !    God,  O  God  ! 
He's  not  my  father,  Sittah  !    Now,  behold, 
I'm  once  more  prostrate  at  your  feet. 

SITTAH. 

Arise! 
Recha,  arise  !  behold,  my  brother  comes. 


SCENE  VII.]         NATHAN  THE  WISE.  163 

SCENE  VII. 
SALADIN,  SITTAH,  and  RECHA. 

SALADIN. 
What  is  the  matter,  Sittah  ? 

SITTAH. 

She  has  swooned. 

SALADIN. 

Who  is  she? 

SITTAH. 
Don't  you  know? 

SALADIN. 

Tis  Nathan's  child. 
What  ails  her? 

SITTAH. 
Look  up,  Recha  !  'tis  the  Sultan. 

RECHA  (crawling  to  Saladin's  feet). 

No,  I'll  not  rise— not  rise,  nor  even  look 
Upon  the  Sultan's  countenance,  nor  wonder 
At  the  bright  lustre  of  unchanging  truth 
And  goodness  on  his  brow  and  in  his  eye, 

Before 

SITTAH. 
Rise,  rise  ! 

RECHA. 
Before  he  promises— 

SALADIN. 

Come,  come  !    I  promise,  whatsoe'er  your  prayer* 

RECHA. 

Tis  only  this— to  leave  my  father  to  me, 
And  me  to  him.     As  yet  I  cannot  tell 
Who  seeks  to  be  my  father  :  who  it  is 


164  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.       [ACT  V. 

Can  harbor  such  a  wish  I'll  ne'er  inquire. 
Does  blood  alone  make  fathers — blood  alone  ? 

SITTAH. 

Who  can  have  been  so  cruel  as  to  raise 
This  dire  suspicion  in  my  Recha's  breast  ? 
Say,  is  it  proved?  beyond  all  doubt  made  clear? 

RECHA. 

Tis  proved,  for  Daja  had  it  from  my  nurse, 
Whose  dying  lips  entrusted  it  to  her. 

SALADIN. 

Dying  !  she  raved.     And  even  were  it  true, 
A  father  is  not  made  by  blood  alone  ; 
Scarcely  the  father  of  a  savage  beast — 
Blood  only  gives  the  right  to  earn  the  name. 
Then  fear  no  more,  but  hear  me.     If  there  be 
Two  fathers  who  contend  for  thee,  leave  both, 
And  claim  a  third  !     O  !  take  me  for  your  father ! 

SITTAH. 

Oh,  do  so,  Recha,  do  so ! 

SALADIN. 

I  will  be 

A  good,  kind  father  to  you.     But,  in  truth 
A  better  thought  occurs.     Why  should  you  need 
Two  fathers?    They  are  mortal,  and  must  die. 
'Twere  better,  Recha,  to  look  out  betimes 
For  one  to  start  with  you  on  equal  terms. 
And  stake  his  life  for  thine.     You  understand  ? 

SITTAH. 

You  make  her  blush  ! 

SALADIN. 

Why  that  was  half  my  scheme. 
Blushing  becomes  plain  features,  and  will  make 
A  beauteous  cheek  more  beauteous.    My  commands 
Are  giv'n  to  bring  your  father,  Nathan,  here. 


SCENE  VIII.]        NATHAN  THE  WISE.  165 

Another  comes  as  well.     You'll  guess  his  name  ? 
Hither  they  come  !    Will  you  allow  it,  Sittah  ? 

SITTAH. 
Brother ! 

SALADIN. 

And  when  he  comes,  maid,  you  must  blush 
To  crimson. 

RECHA. 

Sittah  !  wherefore  should  I  blush  ? 

SALADIN. 

You  young  dissembler,  you  will  else  grow  pale ! 
But  as  thou  wilt  and  canst.     (.1  female  slave  enters, 
and  approaches  SITTAH.)     What,  here  so  soon? 

SITTAH. 
Well,  let  them  enter.     Brother,  here  they  are ! 


SCENE  VIII. 
NATHAN,  the  TEMPLAR,  and  the  others. 

SALADIN. 

Welcome,  my  dear  good  friends  !    Nathan,  to  you 
I  must  first  mention,  you  may  send  and  fetch 
Your  moneys  when  you  will. 

NATHAN. 

Sultan 

SALADIN. 

And  now 
I'm  at  your  service. 

NATHAN. 

Sultan 

SALADIN. 

For  my  gold 

Is  now  arrived  ;  the  caravan  is  safe  : 
These  many  years  I  have  not  been  so  rich. 


!66  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.       [ACT  V. 

Now,  tell  me  what  you  wish  for,  to  achieve 
Some  splendid  speculation  ?    You  in  trade, 
Like  us,  have  never  too  much  ready  cash. 

NATHAN. 

Why  speak  about  this  trifle  first  ?    I  see 

An  eye  in  tears  (going  towards  RECHA).    My  Recha, 

you  have  wept. 
What  have  you  lost  ?     Are  you  not  still  my  child  ? 

RECHA. 
My  father ! 

NATHAN. 

That's  enough  !     We're  understood 
By  one  another  !     But  look  up — be  calm, 
Be  cheerful !     If  your  heart  is  still  your  own, 
And  if  no  threatened  loss  disturb  your  breast, 
Your  father  is  not  lost  to  you  ! 

RECHA. 

None,  none ! 

TEMPLAR. 

None  !    Then  I'm  much  deceived.     What  we  don't  fear 
To  lose,  we  ne'er  have  loved,  and  ne'er  have  wished 
To  be  possessed  of.     But  'tis  well,  'tis  well ! 
Nathan,  this  changes  all !     At  your  command, 
We  come  here,  Sultan.     You  have  been  misled 
By  me,  and  I  will  trouble  you  no  more  ! 

SALADIN. 

Rash,  headlong  youth  !     Must  every  temper  yield 
To  yours  ! — and  must  we  all  thus  guess  your  mindt 

TEMPLAR. 

But,  Sultan,  you  have  heard  and  seen  it  all. 

SALADIN. 

Well,  truly,  it  was  awkward  to  be  thus 
Uncertain  of  your  cause  ! 


SCENE  VIII.]       NATHAN  THE  WISE.  167 

TEMPLAR. 

I  know  my  fate. 

SALADIN. 

Whoe'er  presumes  upon  a  service  done, 

Cancels  the  benefit.     What  you  have  saved 

Is,  therefore,  not  your  own.     Or  else  the  thief, 

Urged  by  mere  avarice  through  flaming  halls, 

Were  like  yourself  a  hero.     (Advuncimj  /otmrcfaRECHA 

to  lead  her  to  the  TEMPLAR.  )     Come,  sweet  maid ! 
Be  not  reserved  towards  him.     Had  he  been  so, 
Were  he  less  warm,  less  proud,  lie  had  held  back, 
And  had  not  saved  you.     Weigh  the  former  deed 
Against  the  latter,  and  you'll  makf  him  blush  ! 
Do  what  he  should  have  done  !  confess  your  love  ! 
Make  him  your  offer  !  and  if  he  refu- 
Or  e'er  forget  how  infinitely  more 
You  do  for  him  than  he  has  done  for  you — 
For  what,  in  fact,  have  been  his  services, 
s.-ivo  soiling  his  complexion  ?  a  mere  sport — 
Else  has  he  nothing  of  my  Assad  in  him, 
But  only  wears  his  mask.     Come,  lovely  maid. 

SITTAH. 

Go,  dearest,  go  !  this  step  is  not  enough 
For  gratitude  ;  it  is  too  little. 

NATHAN. 

Hold! 
Hold,  Saladin  I  hold,  Sittah ! 

SALADIN. 

What  would  you  ? 

NATHAN. 

It  is  the  duty  of  another  now 
To  speak. 

SALADIN. 

Who  questions  that  ?    Beyond  all  doubt 
A  foster-father  has  a  right  to  vote 
First,  if  you  will.    You  see  I  know  the  whole. 


168  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.       [ACT  V. 

NATHAN. 

Not  quite.     I  speak  not,  Sultan,  of  myself. 
There  is  another  and  a  different  man 
Whom  I  must  first  confer  with,  Saladin. 

SALADIN. 

And  who  is  he  ? 

NATHAN. 

Her  brother. 

SALADIN. 

Recha's  brother  ? 

NATHAN. 

E'en  so. 

RECHA. 

My  brother  !    Have  I  then  a  brother  ? 

TEMPLAR  (starting  from  ///'*  * //<•///  and  sullen  inatten* 
tion). 

Where  is  this  brother  ?  Not  yet  here  !  Twas  here 
I  was  to  meet  him. 

NATHAN. 

Patience  yet  awhile. 

TEMPLAR  (bitterly) . 
He  has  imposed  a  father  on  the  girl ; 
He'll  find  a  brother  for  her  now  ! 

SALADIN. 

Indeed, 

That  much  was  wanting.     But  this  mean  rebuke, 
Christian,  had  ne'er  escaped  my  Assad's  lips. 

NATHAN. 

Forgive  him  :  I  forgive  him  readily. 

Who  knows  what  in  his  youth  and  in  his  place 

We  might  ourselves  have  thought  ?     (Approaching  him 

in  a  very  friendly  manner.)     Suspicion,  knight, 
Follows  upon  reserve.     Had  you  at  first 
Vouchsafed  to  me  your  real  name 


SCENE  VIII j        NATHAN  THE  WISE.  169 

TEMPLAR. 

How  I  what  t 

NATHAN. 

You  are  no  Stauffen. 

TEMPLAR. 

Tell  me  who  I  am. 

NATHAN. 

Conrad  of  Stauffen,  not. 

TEMPLAR. 

Then  what's  my  name  ? 

NATHAN. 

Leo  of  Filneck. 

TEMPLAR. 

How? 

NATHAN. 

You  start ! 

TEMPLAR. 

With  reason. 
But  who  says  this  ? 

NATHAN. 

I,  who  can  tell  you  more. 
Meanwhile,  observe,  I  tax  you  not  with  falsehood. 

TEMPLAR. 

Indeed  ! 

NATHAN. 

It  may  be  both  names  fit  you  well. 

TEMPLAR. 

I  think  so.  (Aside)  God  inspired  him  with  that  thought. 

NATHAN. 

Your  mother  was  a  Stauffen  :  and  her  brother 
(The  uncle  to  whose  care  you  were  consigned, 
When,  by  the  rigor  of  the  climate  chased, 
Your  parents  quitted  Germany,  to  seek 
9 


1 70  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.       [ACT  V. 

This  land  once  more)  was  Conrad.     He,  perhaps, 
Adopted  you  as  his  own  son  and  heir 
Is  it  long  since  you  travelled  hither  with  him  ? 
Does  he  still  live? 

TEMPLAR. 

What  shall  I  answer  him? 
He  speaks  the  truth.     Nathan,  'tis  so  indeed  ; 
But  he  himself  is  dead.     I  journeyed  here, 
With  the  last  troops  of  knights,  to  reinforce 
Our  order.     But  inform  me  how  this  tale 
Concerns  your  Recha's  brother. 

NATHAN. 

Well,  your  father 

TEMPLAR. 

What !  did  you  know  him  too  ? 

NATHAN. 

He  was  my  friend, 

TEMPLAR. 

Your  friend  !    Oh,  Nathan,  is  it  possible? 

NATHAN. 

Oluf  of  Filneck  did  he  style  himself ; 
But  he  was  not  a  German. 

TEMPLAR. 

You  know  that  ? 

NATHAN. 

He  had  espoused  a  German,  and  he  lived 
For  some  time  with  your  mother  there. 

TEMPLAR. 

No  more 
Of  this,  I  beg.     But  what  of  Recha's  brother  ? 

NATHAN. 

It  is  yourself. 

TEMPLAR. 

What,  I  ?  am  I  her  brother  ? 


SCENE  VIII.]       NATHAN  THE  WISE.  171 

RECHA. 

He,  my  brother  ? 

SALADIN. 

Are  they  so  near  akin  ? 
RECHA  (approaching  the  TEMPLAR). 
My  brother  ! 

TEMPLAR  (stepping  back) . 
I,  your  brother? 

RECHA  (stopping  and  turning  to  Nathan). 
No,  in  truth, 

It  cannot  be.     His  heart  makes  no  response. 
O  God  !  we  are  deceivers. 

SALADIN  (to  the  Templar). 

S;iy  you  so? 

Is  that  your  thought?    All  is  deceit  in  you : 
The  voice,  the  gesture,  and  the  countenance, 
Nothing  of  these  is  yours.     Ho\v  !  will  you  not 
Acknowledge  such  a  sister  ?    Then  begone ! 

TKMPLAR  (approaching  him  humbly). 

Oh  !  do  not  misinterpret  my  surprise. 

Sultan,  you  never  saw  your  Assad's  heart 

At  any  time  like  this.     Then  do  not  err. 

Mistake  not  him  and  me.     (Turning  to  NATHAN.)   You 

give  me  much, 

Nathan,  and  also  you  take  much  away, 
And  yet  you  give  me  more  than  you  withdraw — 
Ay,  'infinitely    more.      My   sister,    sister !    (embraces 
RECHA). 

NATHAN. 

Blanda  of  Filneck. 

TEMPLAR. 

Blanda,  ha !  not  Recha  ? 

Your  Recha  now  no  more  !     Have  you  resigned 
Your  child  ?    Give  her  her  Christian  name  once  more, 
And  for  my  sake  discard  her  then.     Oh,  Nathan, 
Why  must  she  suffer  for  a  fault  of  mine  ? 


172  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.      [Acr  V. 

NATHAN. 

What  mean  you,  oh,  my  children,  both  of  you? 
For  sure  my  daughter's  brother  is  my  child 
Whenever  he  shall  wish. 

(While  they  embrace  NATHAN,  SALADIN  uneasily  ap- 
proaches SITTAH). 

SALADIN. 

What  say  you,  sister  ? 

SITTAH. 

I'm  deeply  moved 

SALADIN. 

And  I  half  tremble  when 
I  think  of  the  emotion  that  must  come : 
Prepare  yourself  to  bear  it  as  you  may. 

SITTAH. 

What !     How  I 

SALADIN. 

Nathan,  a  word — one  word  with  you. 

(He  joins  NATHAN,  while  SITTAH  approaches  the  other* 
to  express  her  sympathy,  and  NATHAN  and  SALADIN 
co'. averse  in  a  low  tone.) 

Hear,  hear  me,  Nathan.     Said  you  not  just  now 
That  he 

NATHAN. 

That  who? 

SALADIN. 

Her  father  was  not  born 

In  Germany.    You  know  then  whence  he  came? 
And  what  he  was  ? 

NATHAN. 

He  never  told  me  that. 

SALADIN. 

Was  he  no  Frank,  nor  from  the  Western  land  ? 


SCENE  VIII.]        NATHAN  THE  WISE.  173 

NATHAN. 

He  said  as  much.    He  spoke  the  Persian  tongue. 

SALADIN. 

The  Persian  !  need  I  more  ?    "Tis  he  !  'twas  he  ! 

NATHAN. 

Who? 

SALADIN. 

Assad,  my  brother  Assad,  beyond  doubt. 

NATHAN. 

If  you  think  so,  then  be  assured  from  this : 
Look  in  this  book  (handing  him  the  breviary). 

SALADIN. 

Oh,  'tis  his  hand  !  once  more 
I  recognize  it. 

NATHAN. 

Thev  know  naught  of  this : 
It  rests  with  you  to  tell  them  all  the  truth. 

SALADIN  (turning  over  the  leaves  of  the  breviary). 

They  are  my  brother's  children.     Shall  I  not 
Acknowledge  them  and  claim  them  ?    Or  shall  I 
Abandon  them  to  you  ?  (Speaking  aloud.)  Sittah,  they 

are 
The  children  of  my  brother  and  of  yours.     (Rushes  Jo 

embrace  them.) 

SITTAH  (following  his  example). 
What  do  I  hear  ?    Could  it  be  otherwise  ? 

SALADIN  (to  the  TEMPLAR). 

Proud  youth  !  from  this  time  forward  you  are  bound 
To  love  me.     (To  RECHA.)     And  henceforth,  without 

your  leave 
Or  with  it,  I  am  what  I  vowed  to  be. 

SITTAH. 

And  so  am  I. 


174  LESSING'S  DRAMATIC  WORKS.      [ACT  V. 

SALADIN  (to  the  TEMPLAR). 
My  son  !  my  Assad's  son  ! 

TEMPLAR. 

I  of  your  blood  !    Then  those  were  more  than  dreams 
Wiih  which  they  used  to  lull  my  infancy — 

(Falls  at  SULTAN'S  feet.) 

SALADIN  (raising  him). 

There,  mark  the  rascal !  though  he  knew  something 
Of  what  has  chanced,  he  was  content  that  I 
Should  have  become  his  murderer  !     Beware. 

(The  curtain  fa  Us  whilst  they  repeatedly  embrace  each 
other  in  silence.) 


THE  END. 


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Latin  Interlinear  Translations  : 
VIRGIL — By  HART  AND  OSBORNE. 
C-ffiSAR — By  HAMILTON  AND  CLARK. 
HORACE — By  STIRLING,  NUTTALL  AND  CLARK* 
CICERO —  By  HAMILTON  AND  CLARK. 
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By  HAMILTON  AND  UNDERWOOD. 

Greek  Interlinear  Translations  : 
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XENOPHON'S  ANABASIS— By  HAMILTON  AND  CLAEK, 
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judicious  union  (the  fruit  of  an  intelligent  compromise)  with  the  Interlineai 
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